Without waiting for a response, Tick turned and walked up to the dilapidated wooden door. As he reached down and twisted the loose handle, the others spoke from behind him.

“We’ll be watching you, dude,” Paul said.

“You’ll be the only thing we care about until we’re back together,” Sofia blurted out.

“You be tough chickens, now, ya hear?” Sally shouted.

Tick pushed open the door and stepped inside. As he went through, a cold tingle shot down his back.

Chapter

35

~

Beautiful Black Hair

The room was completely dark but strangely warm. Tick pulled the door closed behind him, fighting to calm his breath, standing still in the blackness. The floor beneath him was solid, smooth; the air smelled like . . . flowers. Like an old lady’s perfume. He sniffed, then scratched his nose.

“Hello?” he called out. Isn’t that what they always say in the movies when they walk into a haunted house? “Hello?” he repeated. His voice died as soon as it left his mouth, without even an echo.

The entire room abruptly flared with lights; Tick’s hand shot up to shield his eyes.

It came from everywhere at once: the walls, floor, and ceiling were made out of a rough material that glowed brightly. Tick turned around to see that the door had disappeared—and nothing looked anything like the inside of an old wooden shack.

Chu had already winked him to a new place.

The room was a perfect circle, thirty feet in diameter, bare of furniture except for several, almost invisible, clear plastic benches curving along the walls. That was it—no decorations, no signs, no light fixtures, nothing. Just glowing walls and invisible benches.

“Heaven’s waiting room,” Tick whispered.

“No, it’s not,” a soft voice said from his left.

Tick spun in that direction, stumbling backward two steps. Ten feet from him stood a tall woman, close to the wall, dressed in a tightly fitted yellow dress. Long, silky black hair hung from her head and framed a pale but perfect face; her red lips pulled tightly into a grim smile. Brilliant green eyes stared through horn-rimmed glasses. Tick was certain he couldn’t have missed her before. She had appeared out of nowhere.

“Who . . . who are you?” he asked.

The woman ignored him, scanning the room around her with a disgusted look, as if it were full of snakes and lizards and frogs. “This place is about as far from heaven as you can get in the Realities.” Despite her apparent anger, her voice still gave Tick goosebumps, as if he listened to someone playing the harp.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “Are you—”

“Yes,” she replied, finally focusing her eyes on him. “I imagine you saw a message similar to mine. My name is Mistress Jane, as yours must be Atticus Higginbottom.”