You Can't Hide

by Dan Poblocki

  “And what’s that?” asked Poppy.

  “None of the house’s horrible residents can reach us now.”

  The Azumi standing beside Marcus touched her chin again. “Unless one of them is already in here with us,” she said.

  THE TRICKSTER IS confused. He is standing in the hall at the spot where Dash and Azumi disappeared through a doorway. But now that doorway is gone.

  The other kids stand far away from him, watching, their arms crossed.

  Footsteps stomp toward the Trickster from deep within a dark hollow in the opposite wall. He cowers as the floor shakes, hugging himself tightly. The sounds stop suddenly and a tall figure shifts within the space, hidden in the shadows several feet away.

  Del’s voice calls out to him, “Trickster! What were you thinking?”

  “I was trying to—”

  But Del cuts him off. “Why did you chase them this way? They weren’t supposed to leave that hallway back there! We needed the group to be separated, and now they’re all stuck together, and this is all … your … fault.”

  The Trickster glances at his cast mates. They stare back wordlessly, as if they’re all too disgusted to say anything. His face feels like it’s burning inside his clown mask. He almost tries to take it off again, but then he realizes that might get him in even more trouble. Bad memories from the television studio flood through his body—him getting scolded for playing his jokes, his parents taking away his video games as punishment, Dash rolling his eyes and refusing to talk to him. The Trickster’s old defenses rise up. “Nobody told me what to do! You just grabbed me and then shoved me toward Dash and Azumi. They’re the ones who didn’t run the right way. Why aren’t you yelling at them?”

  “Have you read the script?” asks Del.

  The Trickster feels a jolt. The script! When was the last time he saw it? Had he ever even glanced at it after Del first handed it to him? Shame pierces his skin like a hundred little snake bites. “Can’t we just do it over? I’m ready. Isn’t everyone else?”

  “I should have listened to the rumors about you,” Del whispers. “You’ll follow the others from now on. At least they know what they’re doing.” The masked kids step forward. The Trickster stumbles away, suddenly afraid of what they might do to him.

  “So much for your big role. I should have given it to your brother,” Del says.

  “I can do better,” says the Trickster, shaking with embarrassment and anger. Can Dash hear all of this from the other side of the wall? Is he hiding a grin? “I promise.”

  “Don’t disappoint me again,” says Del, his silhouette shrinking back into the dark chasm.

  POPPY PULLED SEVERAL of the leather-bound books from the shelves and laid them out on the table in the center of the room. Bad thoughts nagged at her, about the Specials, about the orphans, about Cyrus, about the fact that somehow she had ended up in charge even though she had no idea what she was doing. She felt dizzy with dread. The others were going through the shelves behind her. She noticed that Marcus and Dash were standing between the two Azumis, keeping them apart, as they flipped through the materials.

  Poppy bit at her lip, trying to focus. Opening one book, she nearly gasped. A picture of a baby in a bassinet stared up at her. The eyes were unmistakable. This was Consolida Caldwell, her Girl in the mirrors, as a baby. She had chubby cheeks and tufts of hair sticking straight up from her round little head. More photos showed a family at the very beginning of the twentieth century, when Connie had been a toddler. She aged as Poppy turned the pages. One photograph showed Connie—looking just like she had whenever Poppy had seen her in the mirrors—clutching an infant. Below the image, a silver pen had spelled out: Loving sister holds Cyrus for the first time.

  “Anyone find anything useful?” asked Dash.

  “The sun’s sinking quickly,” said one of the Azumis.

  “Are we going to be stuck in here all night?” asked Marcus.

  Poppy was too engrossed to respond. A few pages later, she discovered another picture of Cyrus, age twelve, with cautious eyes and that puff of crazy hair. She thought of the orphans’ vision, of the man Cyrus would grow into, and she wondered if she could see a hint of his future heartlessness in the way his mouth turned down at the edges.

  “Whoa,” said Dash. Poppy jolted to attention and saw that he was sitting right next to her, going through another of the albums. “This is horrible.” He turned the book so Poppy could see it.

  This one was filled with newspaper clippings. One headline from a local paper in 1912 read: Mother and Daughter Perish in Nursery Fire at Hudson Valley Mansion.

  Poppy’s skin went cold. A lump rose in her throat. She leaned forward to read, blinking repeatedly as the print and the photography continued to blur and blur and blur.

  Greencliffe, Jun. 1. An early morning fire in the upper floors of Larkspur House resulted in the deaths of two members of the Caldwell family today. Frederick Caldwell, master of the house, awoke to cries from servants Ada Small and Florence Bland, who alerted him to smoke on the third floor. Caldwell’s wife, Eugenia, age 32, and his daughter, Consolida (Connie), age 12, were overcome while trying to rescue his son, two-year old Cyrus, from the nursery. Miss Small was able to carry the boy to safety, but mother and daughter died minutes before Greencliffe’s fire brigade reached the estate. Mr. Caldwell, a well regarded landscape and portrait painter, was unable to give a statement. The boy is currently under observation at the new Peekskill Hospital south of Greencliffe.

  This is the second tragic event to strike Larkspur House recently—

  The rest of the article was torn away.

  Marcus and the two Azumis were reading over Poppy’s shoulder. She pushed her chair back from the table. “Maybe this is what the orphans wanted us to learn,” she said, smoothing her hair. “The truth about what happened here.”

  “Why would it matter to them?” asked Marcus.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. But it mattered to her! She couldn’t help wondering what Connie’s final moments had been like. She studied Connie’s calm features in the photograph. Had Connie known that her baby brother would survive? Could she have imagined that he’d grow up to become a monster? She flipped back to a page that contained Connie’s photograph.

  Where did you go, Connie? she thought. I still need your help …

  Poppy’s insides buzzed as Connie’s eyes in the photograph slowly slid up—she was still here with Poppy! She was trying to help! Connie seemed to be staring fixedly up and over Poppy’s shoulder as if wholly focused on something. Poppy wheeled around, taking in the slim windows, the books, the bookcases, the stuffed fox, rabbit, and bobcat in a line on top. What was she missing? Poppy stood and whispered to Connie, “Are these what you want me to see?”

  Dash followed her. “Doesn’t it kind of look like they’re chasing one another?”

  “But why would a rabbit be chasing a fox?” asked the short-haired Azumi.

  “It wouldn’t,” said Poppy. “I mean, everyone knows that rabbits are terrified of predators. You can see it in this one’s eyes.” She leaned closer to the rabbit. “Fear of getting caught. Hope that he’ll get away. Is that too much of a stretch?” She lifted the rabbit by the circular wooden base, not wanting to touch the patchy fur but hoping to look at it more closely. Something clicked and she noticed a panel built into the top of the bookcase. The rabbit had been weighing it down. “Whoa! There’s some sort of mechanism here.”

  “Like a booby trap?” asked one of the Azumis.

  “Careful, Poppy,” said Dash.

  “I don’t think it’s like that,” she answered, glancing back at the album on the table. Was Connie smiling? Poppy brushed away chills, hoping that the others didn’t notice that she was trembling. “Hopes and fears. Predators and prey,” she whispered as if to herself. “The house is a mystery. A puzzle. A fox chased by a rabbit chased by a bobcat doesn’t make sense. Does it? But if we put the rabbit first—” She slid the fox back to where the rabbit had b
een sitting. Another click echoed in the room. “Then we see how hope and fear are supposed to work together. Bobcat chases fox. Fox chases rabbit. Rabbit runs!” She placed the stuffed rabbit onto the spot where the fox had been.

  The room rattled, and everyone looked around, startled. Then, by a far wall, a panel in the ceiling opened like a jaw, and a small set of stairs slid down to the floor.

  “IT WORKED!” MARCUS cried out. “I can’t believe that actually worked!”

  “Why not?” asked Poppy, grinning wide.

  Marcus pressed his lips together. His fingers itched for the bow of his cello and all of him yearned for just one measure of his uncle’s music to pour into his brain and calm him down. The longer he went without hearing it, the more alone he felt.

  Dash stared into the darkness. “Are we really going up there?”

  “There’s no other way out of this room,” said one of the Azumis.

  “But Dylan’s not—”

  “We don’t know where Dylan is,” said Poppy, taking his shoulders gently and steering him toward the stairs. He jerked away from her grip, and Poppy flinched, hurt. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Dash. “It’s just … I’ve been pushed around enough today.”

  Marcus hung back, watching as the short-haired Azumi trailed Poppy and Dash up the stairs. The other Azumi caught his arm, pulling him close.

  To his surprise, she threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears. Her sobs shook him as the others disappeared up into the ceiling. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “What’s wrong?” She pulled away, her lip quivering. “Other than that girl showing up and trying beat me into a pulp?”

  “Oh.” Marcus blushed. He’d never been good at relating to people. “Yeah, it’s all pretty disturbing.”

  “I thought I was doing okay, that we were going to all make it out. But now this! I don’t know what to do. Everyone is suddenly looking at me differently, like I’m the bad person.” She wiped at her nose.

  “Everyone is just confused. They want to protect themselves.”

  “You know who I am though. You’ll help me, right, Marcus?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said quietly. But did he know? Could he be sure?

  Azumi closed her eyes. “I’ll help you too. Whatever it takes.” She threw her arms around him again and squeezed. Marcus tensed, then relaxed. It was almost like his uncle’s music was swirling through his mind once again.

  A sound caught his attention. Gazing over Azumi’s shoulder toward the far wall, Marcus saw the missing door suddenly reappear. His jaw dropped in shock and he stepped back. Azumi turned to look as the door creaked slowly open, a small, pale hand clutching at its edge.

  The Specials were coming!

  “Go!” Marcus whispered, pushing Azumi toward the staircase. His thoughts reeling, he leapt toward the bookshelf where the taxidermy animals were sitting, swung his arm, and knocked them off the shelf.

  A howl filled the room, sending chills up Marcus’s back.

  The stairs began to retract up into the ceiling. Azumi was already near the top, eyes wide, clutching the railing as if to keep the stairs from leaving him behind. Marcus jumped and landed a foot on the bottom step. He could hear the Specials pattering swiftly across the floor behind him. Azumi took one hand off the railing and yanked Marcus farther up the stairs, just as a spring-loaded mechanism slammed the panel shut with a resounding whack!

  On the next level, everyone turned to look at them. “The Specials are coming!” Marcus shouted. “They managed to open the door downstairs. I knocked over the animals, but we need to get out of here before they solve the puzzle.”

  Poppy took a deep breath as if gathering her courage. “I have another idea,” she said. “What about trying to set them free? We know how to do it. We did it once before. It’s got to be tied to getting out of here.”

  “We can’t!” said Marcus. “Even if we could get their masks off, we still have to give them something they need. We don’t even know what that might be!”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Dash agreed. “But there’s no door in this room either.” His breath was coming quickly again.

  “Then we’re trapped?” asked short-haired Azumi. “Again?”

  The other Azumi was standing beside a small round table in the center of the room. She ran her fingers along the edges of three circles that were embossed into the darker wood. “Unless there’s another puzzle that opens another way out,” she said.

  Poppy and Dash glanced toward some wooden cupboards with glass-paned doors. Inside the cupboards were a great number of glass jars.

  “It looks like there just might be,” said Poppy.

  A smashing sound echoed up through the floorboards, as if one of the bookshelves had toppled over.

  “Someone do something!” yelled Dash.

  Marcus fought the instinct to hide in a corner. The key to getting out of this room had to be right in front of them. Maybe this time, Marcus thought, I’ll figure it out myself.

  AS THE OTHERS rummaged around the room, the long-haired Azumi waved discreetly to Marcus from her spot by the window.

  She nodded at the tabletop. A row of test tubes held cloudy blue liquid, each one darker than the last. A couple of jars were stuffed with deep-purple dried flower petals. In the middle of the table, a notebook was lying open, pale light spilling on it through the window. “What’s all this about?” Marcus asked. Azumi held her finger to her lips.

  He leaned closer and read.

  April 13, 1938

  Aunt Emily’s package of larkspur flowers arrived today. She sent both types. Out west, the flowers grow in the wild, but here in the east, they’re impossible to find. The consolida is more delicate looking than the delphinium. Lovelier. I can understand why it was my father’s favorite blossom and why he named my sister after it.

  I’ve read that the delphinium is more poisonous.

  My mother’s recipe calls for—

  Marcus looked up at the girl beside him. “This is Cyrus’s notebook!” he whispered. “What was he doing with these plants?”

  “Making poison?” She plucked two of the glass vials from the rack. “Maybe the poison was for the orphans! Could this guy get any creepier?” She shoved one of the vials into the pocket of her denim jacket and handed the other to Marcus.

  “What are we going to do with it?” asked Marcus.

  “It might come in handy later on. We could use it for … for protection.”

  “Protection? But we don’t know what it does.”

  Azumi frowned. “That girl just attacked me, Marcus. We all need to watch out for her.”

  Marcus’s brain stopped producing words. He wished again for the music that used to haunt him to return, if only for a moment. Marcus shook his head and grabbed the notebook from the table. “Poppy will want to take a look at this.”

  “You’re right,” said Azumi coldly, opening a desk drawer and sifting through it. “It might help her understand a little more about the Caldwell family. That seems to be important to her. As important as survival is for the rest of us.”

  A loose page slipped from the notebook. Marcus caught it before it fell to the floor. He glimpsed a bit of writing at its top. Dear Mrs. Geller …

  Mrs. Geller, his mother? What was a letter to Marcus’s mother doing in Cyrus’s journal? Marcus scanned it quickly and realized that it was from his cello instructor at Oberlin. Certain words and phrases leapt out from the page: Painful lessons … Average talent … not sure your son should continue with me …

  He felt nauseated. Oberlin didn’t think Marcus was any good?

  They had made him believe that he was an actual prodigy. Suddenly, Marcus couldn’t remember if they’d ever said that word, or if he’d come up with that idea on his own. His hand shook as he thought of the Musician and of how he’d mimicked his music. He’d tricked people into believing that it was his own. Maybe he didn’t have any real talent.

/>   He was suddenly furious that his uncle Shane had deserted him. Why show up at all if he was just going to leave? It had been Cyrus, Marcus thought, fuming. Cyrus had made the Musician go away, taking the music with him.

  Cyrus had wanted him to find that letter.

  So then Cyrus was the one he had to beat.

  “This one’s about hope!” Poppy called out from the other side of the room. “I know it!”

  “What’s about hope?” asked Azumi as she stepped away from Marcus and back toward the cupboards.

  “This puzzle,” said Poppy, placing three glass jars from the cupboard on the nearby circular table. “The one downstairs was about fear. This one’s about hope.” She stood and hopped giddily over the many jars that she and Dash and the other Azumi had placed on the floor. “Look at these three.” One jar contained what looked like seeds. Another had a selection of variously colored seashells. The third was filled with blue eggshells. “They’re the only ones that aren’t filled with dead things. Scary-looking things.” She shivered as she glanced at the jars at her feet. “These are about growth. About birth. Happy things.”

  “Technically, seashells are dead,” said long-haired Azumi.

  A pounding came from the panel in the corner where the stairs were, followed a moment later by muffled howling. Everyone froze.

  “They’re getting angrier,” short-haired Azumi said from where she knelt by the cupboard. “So are we going to test this out or what?”

  Marcus bristled at the sound of her voice.

  Poppy blinked back into herself. She slid the jars, one by one, to the center of the table, placing them onto the embossed circles. As the last one fit into place, something shifted in the wall behind the cupboard. There was a grinding noise, like stone moving against stone. “They’re weighted just right!”

  The cupboard split in two, right down the middle. A new opening revealed a hollow area in the wall behind it and a ladder that stretched up to the ceiling.