The Lord of the Curtain

by Billy Phillips

  Caitlin frantically shoveled away more dirt.

  Out popped . . . Alice?

  Wait—it isn’t Alice. But it certainly isn’t Natalie.

  Caitlin extended a hand and helped the girl climb out of the grave.

  She brushed away the soil from her hair and patted clumps of dirt from her body. She was zombified—but still as cute as a button. She wore a gingham frock with blue-and-white checks, and the sunrise lit up her auburn hair and reddish pigtails tied with gold ribbons.

  “Dorothy Gale, from Kansas?” Caitlin asked.

  She nodded with a smile. “Caitlin Fletcher from Glendale, London, and New York?”

  Caitlin returned the smile. “Yes. And I feel like I’m going totally mad!”

  “You can’t say that Alice didn’t warn you.”

  “She surely did. I know that to be totally true now. What happens next?”

  “Let’s stroll while we chat,” Dorothy suggested.

  The fictional farm girl took Caitlin by the hand, and they began to amble through the twilit Mount Cemetery.

  “‘Once upon a time’ is really a great secret,” Dorothy said. “And it’s also a bit of a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Time only happens in your world. It’s what allows you to tell stories.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Time separates the beginning, middle, and end. Without it, all things would happen at once. And then there would be no story. No suspense. And no fun.”

  “You talk weirder than Natalie.”

  “Listen,” Dorothy said. “For those of us who live in the other realm, where all the stories reside together, there’s no such thing as time. Everything is already written down.

  Everything is already recorded—because it all exists simultaneously.”

  Caitlin’s eyebrows arched. “You’re talking about the Great Book of Records?”

  Dorothy smiled.

  “And that’s how Glinda knew what was going to happen?” Caitlin continued with a sudden twinge in her chest. “She knew the avalanche was coming at that precise time, and that’s why she took my place in line to cross the bridge?”

  “Yes. But it’s a teeny bit more complicated than that,” Dorothy said. “Because it might not have happened either. But now’s not the time to share such details.”

  Caitlin shook her head. “So why are you even telling me this?”

  “I need to show you something.”

  Caitlin coiled a strand of her pepper-red hair around her pinkie. “Show me what?”

  Dorothy pulled out an ornate magnifying glass with a jeweled, baroque frame.

  Oh my gosh!

  The same magnifying glass that Glinda had used. “Where did you get that?”

  “From the Wicked Witch of the West. She received it from Glinda.”

  “What is it, actually?”

  “In your world, you’d call it a search engine.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Well, the Great Book of Records is actually huge. It’s hidden away in a large vault that touches the stars. Which makes it far too big to lug around. This charmed magnifying glass allows you to search the entire book for entries.”

  “And?”

  Dorothy swallowed before responding. Caitlin couldn’t, because her throat had just closed up.

  “I know what happens,” Dorothy said.

  The sweat beading on Caitlin’s brow ran as cold as February. “I’m listening.”

  “They hunt you down.”

  “Who?”

  “Werwulves.”

  “And?”

  Dorothy didn’t answer, which caused a slight nausea to churn in Caitlin’s stomach. Her voice trembled as her tone turned angry. “And?”

  Dorothy raised the magnifying glass and held it up to Caitlin’s eye.

  She reluctantly gazed through the glass. A gazillion pages whirled by at the speed of magic.

  A sudden flurry of wind swept up the fallen leaves in Mount Cemetery and made the tree branches sway and murmur in ghostly whispers.

  Dorothy lowered the magnifying glass. She lifted her gaze above Caitlin’s shoulder and stared sadly behind her.

  Dread winded Caitlin as she turned around.

  Somehow, she suddenly found herself standing by the graves of her parents, Evelyn and Harold Fletcher, and her gramps, Bobby Blackshaw. Except the grassy lawn of Mount Cemetery had turned parched and withered. A blood moon was fixed in a dark and lonely sky.

  Caitlin’s shocked wail was piercing. Then she went quiet. Wordless. Transfixed.

  A tall gray tombstone stood next to the grave of her parents.

  Etched in the rock were the words “Caitlin Fletcher.”

  This was her grave. Her fate. The end of her story.

  Caitlin crumpled to her knees. Her fingers balled into a hard, tight fist. She pounded the dirt with great force, hopelessness unleashing her full anger.

  Her silent scream paired with bitter tears.

  “If I just die, then what am I fighting for?”

  Dorothy tilted her head to one side as her eyebrow quirked. “You don’t know?”

  Caitlin lowered her head in shame. Her sorrow was directed at her own situation, herself. That had blinded her.

  But now she drew a breath . . . unclenched her fist . . . and rose back to her feet.

  She saw what she was meant to with clarity.

  She knew what she had to fight for—and for whom she had to fight.

  Caitlin had to make sure the fate suffered by Harold and Evelyn Fletcher—and soon her—did not befall another individual.

  Caitlin was now ready to do battle and die—for Natalie.

  And for Eos.

  But?

  “You said everything is already recorded in the Great Book of Records. Which means the end of the story is already

  known. How can I possibly change anything? What choices do I have?”

  Dorothy winked. “Finally, you’re asking the right questions.”

  A bloodcurdling howl shattered the otherwise-tranquil dawn.

  “Oh my,” a wide-eyed Dorothy said. “The werwulves are already here. They must’ve crossed over before you.”

  Dorothy’s ashen face went even whiter as she leaped into Carroll’s grave. The portal sealed shut after she vanished down the wormhole.

  “See ya!” her fading voice echoed.

  The howling gave way to a nearby growl, the snarling close as dark to night.

  The air smelled like a dog kennel.

  A two-legged, blood-eyed, frothy-mouthed werwulf suddenly crept out of the dark of twilight, not more than twenty feet from Caitlin. The creature was frost white, head to claw. Saliva poured from its jaw and drool pooled on the ground beneath it.

  Caitlin’s eyes shifted to Carroll’s grave. It was sealed shut. Useless as an escape route.

  A rustling noise sounded behind her. Feet crunching leaves.

  “Step away slowly,” a male voice said firmly. “I’ve got a gun on the animal.”

  Caitlin took a few cautious steps backward and then gingerly turned toward the voice.

  Two police officers—one male, one female—had their eyes and guns trained on the wulf.

  Thank God!

  The female officer raised her gun, tilting it upward. She fired a bullet into the air. It worked. The booming gunshot frightened off the werwulf, and it fled into the darkness with terrible speed.

  Caitlin heard other feet—paws?—scurrying away in the darkness.

  How many werwulves are out there?

  “Are you okay, miss?” the male officer asked.

  Caitlin wiped the perspiration from her brow. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “What was that wretched creature?” the male officer
asked his colleague. She just shook her head, perplexed.

  “Whatever it was,’” he said, “I’m afraid it’s still out there, along with a few others.”

  The female officer approached Caitlin. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, but can we get out of here?”

  The female officer pulled out a paper from her pocket. “Are you Caitlin Rose Fletcher?”

  “I am.”

  “Apparently, you’ve gone missing from your foster home in the States. We have a warrant from a London magistrate to detain you under Section Three of the Mental Health Act. You will be admitted to Foster Home Services under the personal care of Doctor J. L. Kyle, managing director of the agency.”

  Caitlin’s beating heart slammed against the wall of her chest.

  Her fingers twitched. Her calves tightened. She rolled up onto the balls of her feet, itching to run.

  Should she take her chances with the wolf in sheep’s clothing at the orphanage, or the pack of white werwulves lurking in the darkness that surrounded her?

  Caitlin had to decide quickly which deadly option seemed the safer bet.