No, thought Will, save yourself, run!
But his mother and Jim's mother simply strolled content, from the warm church through town.
Mom! screamed Will again, and some small muffled bleat of it escaped the sweaty paw.
Will's mother, a thousand miles away over on that sidewalk, paused.
She couldn't have heard! thought Will. Yet--
She looked over at the library.
"Good," sighed Mr. Dark. "Excellent, fine."
Here! thought Will. See us, Mom! Run call the police!
"Why doesn't she look at this window?" asked Mr. Dark quietly. "And see us three standing as for a portrait. Look over. Then, come running. We'll let her in."
Will strangled a sob. No, no.
His mother's gaze trailed from the front entrance to the first-floor windows.
"Here," said Mr. Dark. "Second floor. A proper coincidence, let's make it proper."
Now Jim's mother was talking. Both women stood together at the curb.
No, thought Will, oh, no.
And the women turned and went away into the Sunday-night town.
Will felt the Illustrated Man slump the tiniest bit.
"Not much of a coincidence, no crisis, no one lost or saved. Pity. Well!"
Dragging the boys' feet, he glided down to open the front door.
Someone waited in the shadows.
A lizard hand scurried cold on Will's chin.
"Halloway," husked the Witch's voice.
A chameleon perched on Jim's nose.
"Nightshade," whisked the dry-broom voice.
Behind her stood the Dwarf and the Skeleton, silent, shifting, apprehensive.
Obedient to the occasion, the boys would have given their best stored yells air, but again, on the instant recognizing their need, the Illustrated Man trapped the sound before it could issue forth, then nodded curtly to the old dust woman.
The Witch toppled forward with her seamed black wax sewn-shut iguana eyelids and her great proboscis with the nostrils caked like tobacco-blackened pipe bowls, her fingers tracing, weaving a silent plinth of symbols on the mind.
The boys stared.
Her fingernails fluttered, darted, feathered cold winter-water air. Her pickled green frog's breath crawled their flesh in pimples as she sang softly, mewing, humming, glistering her babes, her boys, her friends of the slick snail-tracked roof, the straight-flung arrow, the stricken and sky-drowned balloon.
"Darning-needle dragonfly, sew up these mouths so they not speak!"
Touch, sew, touch, sew her thumbnail stabbed, punched, drew, stabbed, punched, drew along their lower, upper lips until they were thread-pouch shut with invisible thread.