NO ORDINARY RAT
ESSICA’S PARENTS PICKED her up late, long after the last trick-or-treaters had come and gone. Despite searching the house, neither she nor Timothy saw any sign of the rat. Timothy decided not to say a word to his parents, who would overreact, like parents always did. Any explanation might involve sharing more about the adventures of last spring than he was prepared to discuss.
The rat was waiting—waiting until they were asleep and vulnerable. As Timothy prepared for bed, he pictured it peering out from his closet, with gleaming yellow eyes and a skinny tail. Rats could climb, maybe even jump. He got the baseball bat from his closet. If the rat attacked him in the night, he’d be armed. Then he pulled his blanket up so no edge touched the floor. He wasn’t going to make it any easier for the rat to get to him. The leaf still glowed a dull red, and he placed it under his pillow. He checked the batteries in his flashlight. Working. Stowed it under the covers. Time to watch and wait. But by early morning, his eyes were too heavy to hold open any longer. Around four, he drifted off, sleeping deeply and plagued by nightmares.
A scream splintered his dreams. He sat up fast and confused. The rat! Like a piercing whistle, the scream went on and on.
He grabbed his baseball bat, leapt from his bed, and pounded down the hallway to the stairs. The scream came from his mother’s art studio, on the first floor in the back of the house. He flew down the stairs and slid into the studio, almost knocking over his father.
His mother was bent over, clutching her calf.
“It bit me! A huge brown rat came out of nowhere and bit me!”
“A rat?” His father bent down to look at his wife’s leg. “Liz, are you sure?”
Timothy’s heart sank. He should have said something last night! Should have searched for the rat all night, if necessary!
“It looks like a bite all right,” his father said. “But a rat … We’ve never had rats in the house. And they don’t usually bite people.”
“Well, it bit me,” his mother sobbed, “and I know what I saw!”
While his father went to get some ice, Timothy picked up his mother’s paintbrush from the floor and mopped up the splattered oil paints. The small puncture wounds on her leg were surrounded by an angry red welt.
“Did you see where it went?” he asked.
“It was all so fast. But I think it went in there.” She gestured toward the utility room. “Be careful!”
Timothy cautiously pushed the utility room door open and turned on the light. Washer, dryer, shelves of canned goods … Everything looked normal. But the rat could be hiding anywhere, waiting and watching with its beady eyes.
His father came back with a bag of frozen peas in his hand. “This should help the swelling. We’ll have to take you in for a rabies shot. Then I’ll call the exterminator.”
Timothy’s father always rallied in a crisis, issuing orders as if he were a military commander. Usually, it made Timothy feel safe, but this time it was different. He knew that even his father couldn’t find this rat, not if it didn’t want to be found.
As soon as his parents left for the emergency room, Timothy traded the bat for his flashlight and dropped down on his hands and knees. He crawled around the base of the washer and dryer, shining his flashlight under and behind them.
Nothing.
Then he shone the light behind all the shelves.
Still no rat in sight.
He stuck the flashlight into the waistband of his sweatpants and got his cell phone. He needed to tell Jessica what had happened. Maybe there was something that Cerridwyn had taught her that might help him. Cerridwyn had given Jessica a book of mythology before leaving last May. But Timothy was skeptical. Would myth be of any use in this situation? And would an exterminator be of any use against an evil rat?
Jessica’s voice mail picked up on the first ring. He left a message. Then he sent her a text. Now there was nothing to do but wait until the rat showed itself again. Timothy went into his bedroom to get dressed, and then he remembered his leaf. When he slipped his hand under the pillow, he knew even before he touched it that the leaf would be glowing and hot to the touch. Now a murky red, the leaf looked as if it were filled with smoke.
Dropping the leaf into the pocket of his jeans, Timothy went into the kitchen to pour himself a bowl of cereal. And think. As he lifted the bowl to drain the last of the milk, he heard a faint scuttling noise. Slowly, he lowered the bowl. Across the room, from between the legs of the maple china cabinet, two yellow-flecked eyes shone.
Timothy hurled his spoon at the eyes, splattering milk across the floor. He didn’t know what he expected, but he hoped it would at least scare the rat or flush it out of hiding.
But nothing happened. The rat didn’t flinch. It continued to stare at him boldly from the cover of dark.
“Bold,” Timothy grumbled aloud. Only seven points. But he knew this rat was worse than bold. It was malevolent.
“Get out of our house!” he yelled, sure that this very unordinary rat could understand what he said.
But still the eyes did not move. Only watched.
Timothy could feel his anger growing. Okay, if the rat wasn’t going to move, he’d force it out.
He retrieved the baseball bat, and rooted in the kitchen junk drawer, through the string, coupons, and glue sticks, finally closing his hand over a small box of wooden matches. It took three tries to get the match lit—just enough time for Timothy to realize that he didn’t want to be only one match length away from the creature, even if it was lit. A fire extinguisher—that was it!
Timothy flung open the pantry door and grabbed the extinguisher from its bracket on the wall. Crouching, his hands shaking as much from anger now as fear, he squeezed the trigger. With a loud whoosh, foam jetted out, and the rat, larger than any normal rat should be, ran straight toward him. He grabbed the bat and swung. But the rat was too fast. The bat thwacked hard against the floor, sending a jolt of pain through Timothy’s shoulder. The rat disappeared under the cabinets.
“Timothy James! What are you doing?”
THE RATCATCHER
IMOTHY JUMPED. Bubbles of foam cut a swath across the kitchen floor, and the fire extinguisher lay on its side.
“Is there a fire?” Sarah dropped her sleeping bag to the floor.
“Watch out! There’s a rat under there, an evil rat!” Timothy gestured wildly at the bottom of the cabinets. “It bit Mom, after it crawled out from some trick-or-treater’s bag! I tried to chase it out with the fire extinguisher, and it rushed me!”
Sarah spun around to survey the room. “Bit Mom?”
“I think it was sent by Balor!”
Sarah ate a slice of toast with peanut butter while Timothy mopped up the floor and explained everything in chronological order, describing the terrible one-eyed mask, the raspy hum and wheezing laugh, and the rat’s dash into the house. He tried not to leave anything out.
His cell phone rang just as he got to the part about the matches.
“Timothy, I called a rodent exterminator on the way to the ER,” his father said. “They don’t usually come out on Saturdays, but they’re making an exception. If he gets there before we get home, let him in to do his thing. Is Sarah home yet?”
“She just got here.”
“Good. We shouldn’t be too long, but you know how things are at the ER.” And he disconnected.
“Dad called an exterminator,” Timothy told his sister as he hung up the phone.
Sarah lifted her sleeping bag off the floor. “Maybe an exterminator will help.”
“This isn’t a normal rat, Sarah. I think we need to do something. Otherwise, it won’t leave until it gets what it wants.”
Sarah shuddered. “What does it want?”
“I don’t know. But the leaf’s been burning-hot the whole time.”
“I hate rats. They have nasty yellow teeth and those naked tails! If it was an ordinary rat, we could set Prank on it. But I don’t think she’d be any match for the rat you described,” S
arah said.
As soon as Sarah mentioned Prank, Timothy felt a jolt of fear. Where was their cat? He dashed out the front door to call for her just as an old pickup truck lumbered into the driveway. The blue paint had long since faded and peeled away, leaving the truck covered with scabrous blotches. Wire cages and wooden boxes were stacked precariously in the bed, looking as if they might topple out at any minute. Even the headlights were askew.
A small man in overalls climbed out of the truck. He moved so stealthily that Timothy couldn’t hear the gravel crunch under his feet as he carried a metal trap up the driveway. Every few steps, he paused to look furtively around. There was something vaguely familiar about his slinking walk and hunched posture.
“I think I’ve seen him before,” Timothy whispered to Sarah, who had joined him on the porch.
The little man stopped at the base of the steps and looked up, his long nose twitching, as if smelling the air. Gray hair sprouted in tufts from under a red cap and bristled on his chin, and his small, bright eyes fixed on Timothy and Sarah. Then he turned his head and spat.
Timothy felt Sarah flinch.
“Ratcatcher,” the little man announced, climbing the steps and extending one bony hand. “Name’s Nom.”
His hand was gray with old dirt, but Timothy shook it anyway. The ratcatcher’s nails scrabbled against Timothy’s hand as he withdrew it. Then the little man smiled, showing a jagged row of long yellow teeth and pale gums.
Now Timothy was sure he had seen this man before, but he still couldn’t place him.
The ratcatcher leaned forward. “I hear you got a rodent problem. Well, I’m yer man, then! No one knows rats like me.”
Sarah drew back in distaste. “Our parents said to expect you. They’ll be home any minute.”
“This isn’t any ordinary rat,” Timothy muttered.
“Eh? Rat’s a rat. There’s good uns and bad uns, just like people. Oh, some of them’s tricky, but I knows a few tricks meself.” The ratcatcher rubbed his bony hands together, and his nose twitched again. Flecks of yellow glinted in his beady brown eyes. “Gonna let me in, then?”
Then Timothy knew. The last time he had seen this man, it had been in Balor’s workshop, where he had been held prisoner. The man had escaped from one of the cages Timothy opened and had scuttled across the floor. The ratcatcher moved in the same hunched way, and had the same sinewy build.
Sarah motioned for the ratcatcher to follow her into the house. Timothy hurried to catch up.
They were met at the door by Prank. She crouched low, her tail whipping slowly from side to side, a hunter’s metronome.
The little man’s step faltered. “Cats!” he cried. “Can’t abide ’em. Nasty, sneaking creatures.”
Timothy scooped Prank up in his arms and took her to his mother’s studio. She hissed, struggling to free herself.
“If you can’t behave,” he scolded her, “I’ll have to leave you in here.” He closed the door.
“The last time my brother saw the thing,” he heard Sarah telling the ratcatcher when he entered the kitchen, “it was in here.”
The ratcatcher stood motionless in the middle of the room, as if listening for something. As if smelling for something. “Not here now, is he?” he said finally.
Sarah looked at him skeptically. “How can you tell?”
“Rats got an odor, subtle-like,” he replied as he scurried from room to room, sniffing as he went. “You get to know it. This one smells a bit different, though. Smelled that smell before, I have.”
Timothy was thinking furiously. If this was the same man he had helped escape from Balor’s workshop, and he had no doubt that it was, why was he here, in their world? And how could Timothy let him know he recognized him? Was he supposed to say something?
“Got to attract ’em, that’s what you got to do,” the little man continued, still nosing around. “You say this ratty bit someone?”
“Our mother,” Sarah said.
“Oh, that’s not good. Not good at all. Dangerous critters, rats. Got to know how they think. They move along the edges of things, you know. Safer than crossing a room. Always look in the corners!”
Timothy tried to catch the man’s eye. “This rat doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything,” he said quickly, “and it has yellow flecks in its eyes.”
“Cheeky, is he? Not afraid of anything? Unnatural, that it is.”
The ratcatcher was down on his hands and knees in the utility room, sniffing along the baseboards. “He’s been here, all right.” He raised up on his knees and looked right at Sarah. “You got something to attract ’im, young lady. Piece of tree in your room, in’t there? Go get me it.”
Sarah froze. She looked at Timothy. He could almost hear her ask, How could the ratcatcher know about the piece of tree that the Greenman gave me last spring?
Timothy’s mouth was dry. This proved it; he was the man from Balor’s workshop!
But before he could say anything, Sarah asked, “What piece of tree do you mean?”
“Don’t think I don’t know things. I do. Why do you think he gave it to you? If you want this ratty caught, better fetch it.”
Sarah didn’t say another word as she ran off to her bedroom.
“I remember you,” Timothy said finally, squatting down next to the ratcatcher, who was sniffing along the baseboard near the washing machine. “You were in the workshop. Balor’s workshop.”
“And I’m owing you, aren’t I?” the little man said matter-of-factly. “You got me out of there, you did.” The ratcatcher smiled again, a slow smile that showed all his yellowed teeth. “So now I’m doing you a favor, disposing of the ratty. Smells like he’s here. Behind yer washing machine.”
“But how did you get here, in this world?”
“What, you think no one’s looking after you? Do you think the Light would leave you on yer own, unprotected-like? You seen the two eagles in the tree outside yer house, didn’t you?” The little ratcatcher sniffed.
Watchmen! Sarah was right. “Well, they didn’t do a very good job if they let the rat into the house,” Timothy said.
“Wasn’t their fault. They can’t come in the house. How was they to know there was something in the bag?” Nom shook his head. “You’d think the council would be smarter.”
“Council?” Timothy felt the conversation spinning out of control.
Sarah dashed back with a small glass cylinder clutched in her hand. Inside was the core of wood from the Greenman’s side.
“That’s right, princess,” the little man said approvingly. “Keep it closer next time.” He licked his lips. “Open it up now.”
Sarah drew out the slender piece of wood. “From the heart of a tree,” the Greenman had said. She held it out to the ratcatcher.
The little man snatched it up, pressed his pointy nose against it, and inhaled deeply till his nose quivered. “Just what I thought,” he announced. “We’ll only be needing a tiny piece.” Then he put the end in his mouth and bit it off.
“Stop that!” Sarah grabbed the remaining piece of wood.
The little man drew back his lips: A tiny piece of wood protruded from his stained teeth. Removing it, he pulled a vial out of his shirt pocket, opened it, spit into it, and then dropped in the piece of wood. “Got any peanut butter?” he asked, as if he did this sort of thing every day.
Sarah stood transfixed, clutching the Greenman’s wood with a look of total disgust on her face. But Timothy hurried into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a jar of peanut butter.
“That’s right,” the ratcatcher said approvingly. “Need to attract ’em.” He scooped a glob of peanut butter onto the floor of the trap he had carried into the house, shook the vial, and poured the solution of spit and wood sliver into the peanut butter until it made a gooey mess. He set the trap on the floor next to the washing machine. “That’ll draw ’im. Knows a thing or two, I do.” And then, motioning for the children to follow, he backed out of the room.
They al
l three watched through the utility room’s doorway. For the first few minutes, nothing happened. Timothy found that he was holding his breath, and Sarah seemed still too stunned to speak, but the little man was fairly bouncing with excitement.
Then slowly, furtively, the rat crawled out from under the washer. Its nose twitched, and its beady eyes surveyed the room.
Timothy heard Sarah’s sharp intake of breath, and he knew why: This was easily the largest rat she, too, had ever seen. It must have weighed at least three pounds.
The rat made a dash toward the trap, stopped, and paused again to sniff the air. Finally, it eased itself into the trap and began gnawing at the glob of peanut butter.
Because it was a simple spring trap, the door shut with a satisfying click. The rat raised its head and opened its mouth wide in protest, its yellow teeth coated in peanut butter. Then it scrabbled with its claws against the cage.
The little man was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Works every time!” he cried. “Can’t resist the smell of peanut butter and tree, rats can’t!”
Just then, the front door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell came in.
“How are you, Mom? He caught the rat!” Sarah’s words tumbled out all at once as she ran to hug her mother.
“Well, that was fast!” Timothy’s father extended his hand toward the ratcatcher, and Timothy could see he wanted to draw it back as soon as he got a good look at the grimy little fellow.
“What will you do with it?” Timothy’s mother asked the ratcatcher as she looked squeamishly at the trap and the huge rat inside it.
“Drown it,” said the ratcatcher. “I always drown ’em. But I saves the tail. Good fishing bait, the tails is.”
Timothy’s mother swallowed hard, and Timothy’s father took advantage of the sudden lull in conversation to hustle the rodent exterminator toward the door. Timothy hurried after them.
“The doctor swabbed the wound, and gave me a shot,” he heard his mother telling Sarah as she showed off her bandaged leg. “She said rat bites hardly ever cause any problems. She also said they hardly ever happen in the daytime.” She shuddered. “I think we need to keep Prank inside for a few days.”
Beyond the Door Page 16
