rose out of nowhere and tickled their spines.
“Stop it!” Rosemary shouted. “I’ve had enough of this!”
The shaking floor intensified into a rumble. The chandelier swung and tinkled like a wind chime. “This is a trick!” she yelled. “The house is mechanical!”
“The controls must be around somewhere!” shouted Peter.
“Let’s find them!” Rosemary stumbled towards the fireplace. She jumped back as the flames leapt out at her. “Here! It’s around here!” A portrait hung above the mantel. In the painting, the eyes of a stern whitehaired man glared at her. Rosemary shifted her position, and the eyes followed her.
Darting to the mantel, Rosemary climbed the stonework and perched precariously. She raised her hand, two fingers sticking out, and poked the portrait hard in the eyes.
There was a scream from within.
Rosemary punched and her fist crashed through the canvas. Grabbing an edge, she began to tear the painting away.
The floor stopped shaking and the noises were silenced abruptly. Behind the portrait, somebody yelled, “Hey! Stop! That’s valuable, that is!”
Peter rushed over and helped to pull the canvas away. Behind it they found an alcove filled with mechanical equipment. A short man sat on a stool by the controls, clutching his eyes.
Peter jumped into the alcove and grabbed the man’s swivel chair. “Who are you?”
The man swung around. He was wearing a snarling, gap-toothed witch doctor mask. “Yah!” He lunged at Peter.
Peter stumbled out of the alcove, fell off the mantel, and landed on the floor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MIRROR, MIRROR
“She will.”
— Marjorie Campbell
The man leapt off the mantelpiece and pulled off his mask. He pointed at Peter and cackled. “Got you!” He was a small man with a round, red face like a cherub, but his eyes were as dark as holes.
Keeping her eye on the little man, Rosemary climbed down while Puck helped Peter to his feet. “You run this place?” Rosemary asked.
The man tapped his fingers together and gave her a little bow. “Actually, Miss Watson, I am filling in for the proprietor. You remember old Professor Herman?”
The light dawned. “Yes! Professor Herman!”
“Huh?” said Peter.
“This old guy who rigged the house to move around and make noises to scare everybody away,” said Rosemary. “But two kids weren’t scared off; they made friends with him and got him back into the real world.”
“They just left the house behind at the end of the story,” said the man. “They didn’t tell you whether they shut it down or not, so it’s still here, and I’m able to make use of it.”
“Why?” demanded Peter, still brushing himself off. “Why did you try to scare us like that?”
“So, I did scare you?” said the little man eagerly.
“Yes!”
The man clapped and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Oh, good, good, good! I do so love a job well done!”
“This is your job?” said Rosemary.
“My life, actually,” said the man. “I’m sorry, haven’t I introduced myself? I am the Fearmonger, and fear is my life.”
“The Fearmonger?” echoed Rosemary.
“I—I’ve never read about a Fearmonger,” said Peter.
“I am not a character,” the Fearmonger bubbled, “but I am in most works of fiction.” He threw his arms wide. “I am the shadow in the corner! I am the ghost that lurks in dark alcoves! I am the twitching doorknob on an unlocked door. Fear is my service to the Land of Fiction.”
“Some service,” snapped Peter, “scaring people out of their wits!” He turned and was suddenly face to face with a living, breathing gargoyle. Its stone tongue lolled.
“Yah!” said the gargoyle.
Peter stumbled back, tripped, and fell to the floor.
The Fearmonger tossed the mask aside. “Got you again!”
Rosemary eyed the Fearmonger and his cheeky grin. “You’re enjoying this!”
“And so are you,” said the Fearmonger. “Look at yourself, Miss Watson: your heart is still beating at twenty percent over its normal rate after your trip through the corridor and your skin is delightfully flushed. How do you feel? Alert, I’ll wager. Excited? Invigorated?”
Despite herself, Rosemary grinned. “Yeah, it was kind of fun.”
“Well, I’m not having fun,” muttered Peter from the floor. Rosemary gave him a guilty glance.
“I am glad I could be of service,” said the Fearmonger. “It is my duty, after all, to test your mettle. Only if you pass me will you be worthy to save your brother, Theo.”
Peter stood up. Rosemary stared at the Fearmonger, wide-eyed.
“Yes, I have followed your every step, Miss Watson,” the Fearmonger continued. “I must say, I am impressed with your performance so far. I had never realized what a brave young person you were.”
“Well, I have to be,” said Rosemary. “Theo’s my brother. This is not some book!”
“Indeed it is not some book.” The Fearmonger began to pace, making slow, measured strides as he strolled around them, his heels clicking on the marble floor. “But I know you, Miss Watson. I’ve looked out at you from almost every book you’ve read. You do not do well with books.”
Rosemary shivered. The room was suddenly colder.
“And now you hunt for the characters who kidnapped your brother — you, yourself, not some figure on the page. You face the risks, now, the terms. And to think of what you face; why, it would make me quake in my boots!”
Rosemary couldn’t get warm. “Wh-what am I facing?”
He came close and whispered over her shoulder. “Only your worst fears.”
She stared at him.
He circled again. “I know you, Miss Watson. I know that, for every four novels you start, three go unfinished. Two get tossed against the wall.”
His footsteps grew heavier. The Fearmonger was taller, now, and getting taller with every step. Peter stood horrified. Puck looked on in silence, his arms folded and his face grim. And it was so cold.
“You are fighting these things, Miss Watson,” the Fearmonger purred, his voice now an octave deeper. “Only, you can’t throw the book down and run away. It will be you falling into the volcano, you facing execution at dawn, you trapped in the tomb, in the dark, with nothing but scarab beetles for company.”
Rosemary clutched her arms around herself to try to keep from quaking.
Peter struggled out of his trance and grabbed her shoulder. “Rosemary, don’t listen to him!”
She could hardly hear him. She couldn’t answer. He turned her around and shouted into her face. “Rosemary! He’s trying to scare you off!”
The Fearmonger leapt at Peter, his face transformed into the face of a snarling wolf. Peter scrambled back.
The Fearmonger pulled off his mask. “Got you a third time!” Then he turned back to Rosemary, leaned over her shoulder, and began whispering into her ear like a bad conscience. “How will you fight, Miss Watson? You have no weapons. How will you face creatures that can fold themselves