Read The Books of Elsewhere, Vol. 1: The Shadows for Free Online Page A

“ You certainly haven’t had any good suggestions.”
    Morton tossed his tufty head and stomped off after Horatio.
    The cat guided them across the field toward the row of houses, his giant orange tail twitching like a banner. The grass under Olive’s feet felt soft and dewy. Threads of mist lay across the field, floating in the motionless air.
    Gradually, Morton’s stomping turned to shuffling. He gazed around, nearly tripping on the hem of his nightshirt. “I think I know this place,” he said slowly. “I think I was here once.”
    In single file, they reached the edge of the field. Horatio led Olive and Morton along the row of houses. In the painting, they had looked small and simple, but up close, Olive saw that they were grand old houses, covered with gingerbread trim and sturdy pillars and leaded windows of every shape and size. The row of houses lined a wide, empty street. No one sat on the porches. No one played on the lawns. No one lit a lamp in the windows. And yet, Olive thought she caught a glimpse of faces staring out at them through slats in the shutters, or peeping at them between closed curtains. Whenever she turned to check, though, the faces were gone.
    “I do know this place,” Morton whispered.
    And somehow, Olive had the sense that she knew this place too. It was familiar, but strange, like something from a dream.
    “Horatio,” Olive asked, “where are we?”
    The cat gave a slight shrug. “We’re here,” he said, without looking back. “Elsewhere.”
    Horatio stopped abruptly in front of a three-story wooden house. In the dim light, the house looked gray, but by day it might have been any color. Around the house stood a low wooden fence with a gate that was shut in an unfriendly way. The house was silent, and clearly empty. Its windows stared at them like vacant mirrors.
    “Why are we stopping here?” Olive asked.
    “This is my house,” said Morton softly.
    Horatio watched them both, saying nothing.
    Olive looked at the house again. She had seen this house before. She had seen it many times. It was Mrs. Nivens’s house.
    Olive spun around, examining the street. Yes—there was Mrs. Dewey’s house, one door down, with its wide front porch. And across the street was the brick house with the dormer windows. The big oak tree in its front yard was just a scrawny sapling. There were other houses that looked familiar, just with different colors and different details, and there were houses that she didn’t recognize at all.
    Olive’s eyes came to rest on the plot next to Mrs. Nivens’s house. Where the old stone house—her house—should have been, there was only an empty swath of land. This was Linden Street, but it was the Linden Street of a long, long time ago, or the Linden Street of a time that never really existed.
    “Horatio,” Olive began, staring at the unoccupied plot, “where’s our house? Why isn’t it here?”
    “It wasn’t necessary,” said Horatio brusquely. “Olive, we must be on our way.” He turned back toward the street.
    Morton grasped Olive’s arm. His hand made a warm spot on her mist-chilled skin. “You’re not just going to leave me here, are you?”
    Olive looked down into Morton’s moony, frightened face, and the irritated voice in her brain, the one that kept saying GIRLS are smarter than BOYS , felt a little less sore.
    She looked at Horatio for help.
    The cat cocked his head matter-of-factly. “It’s the closest to home he’s going to get.”
    Olive looked back down at Morton. “I’ll come back and see you soon.” She paused. “If you want me to, I mean.”
    Morton took a step back, the frightened look on his face wrestling with a frown. The frown won. “I don’t care,” he said with a shrug.
    “Fine,” Olive retorted. “Then . . . good-bye.”
    “Bye,” said Morton, looking away.
    Olive let out an angry sigh and turned to hurry after Horatio, who was already moving briskly along the row of houses. Halfway down the street, she