Wendell shrugged. “Who cares?” he said. “Maybe it’s all being sucked to Hell!”

Eager to witness this, Harvey walked toward the lake, and through the clouds of dirt in the air saw that it had indeed become a whirlpool, its once placid waters now a raging spiral.

“What happened to Hood, by the way?” Wendell wanted to know.

“He’s gone,” said Harvey, almost mesmerized by the sight of the vortex. “They’ve all gone.”

Even as the words left his lips a voice said: “Not quite.”

He turned from the waters, and there in the rubble stood Rictus. His fine jacket was torn and his face was white with dust. He looked like a clown; a laughing clown.

“Now why would I take myself off?” he asked. “We never said goodbye.”

Harvey stared at him with bafflement on his face. Hood was gone; so was his magic. How could Rictus have survived the disappearance of his Master?

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Rictus, reaching into his pocket. “You’re wondering why I’m not dead and gone. Well, I’ll tell you. I did some plannin’ ahead.” He drew a glass globe, which flickered as though it held a dozen candle flames, out of his pocket. “I stole a little piece of the old man’s magic, just in case he ever got tired of me and tried to put me out of my misery.” He lifted the globe up to his leering face. “I’ve got enough power here to keep me going for years and years,” he said. “Long enough to build a new House, and take over where Hood left off. Oh, don’t look so unhappy, kid. I got a place for you, right here—” He slapped his thigh. “You can be my bird dog. I’ll send you out lookin’ for kiddie-winkies to bring home to Uncle Rictus.” He slapped his thigh a second time. “C’mon!” he said. “Don’t waste my time now. I don’t—?”

He stopped there, his gaze dropping to the rubble at his feet.

A terrified whisper escaped his throat. “Oh no…” he murmured. “I beg—”

Before he could finish his plea a hand with foot-long fingers reached up from the rubble and snatched hold of his throat, dragging him down into the dirt in one swift motion.

“Mine!” said a voice out of the ground. “Mine!”

It was Hood, Harvey knew. There was no other voice on earth that cut so deep.

Rictus struggled in his creator’s grip, digging in the debris for some weapon. But none came to hand. All he had was his skill as a persuader.

The magic’s yours,” he said. “I was holding on to it for you!”

“Liar!” said the voice that rose from the debris.

“I was! I swear!”

“Give it to me then!” Hood demanded.

Where shall I put it?” Rictus asked, his voice a strangled croak.

Hood’s hand loosened him a little, and he managed to haul himself to his knees.

“Right here…” Hood said, hanging onto Rictus’s collar by his littlest digit, while his forefinger pointed down toward the rubble. “…Pour it into the ground.”

“But—”

“Into the ground!”

Rictus pressed the globe between his palms, and it shattered like a sphere of spun sugar, its bright contents running out between his palms and into the ground in front of him.

There was a moment of silence; then a tremor ran through the rubble.

Hood’s finger let its captive slip, and Rictus hurriedly got to his feet. He had no chance to make an escape, however. Pieces of timber and stone instantly moved over the heaps of rubble toward the spot where he’d poured the magic, several lifted high into the air. All Rictus could do was cover his head as the hail increased.

Harvey was clear of this flying debris, and might well have made a retreat in these few moments. But he was wiser than that. If he fled now, he knew, his business with Hood would never be finished. It would be like a nightmare he could never quite shake from his head. Whatever happened next, however terrible, it would be better to see it and understand it than to turn his back and have his mind haunt him with imaginings to his dying day.

He didn’t have to wait long for Hood’s next move. The hand holding Rictus’s neck suddenly let him go, and in a flash was gone from sight. The following moment the ground gaped and a form appeared, hunched over as it climbed out of its tomb in the rubble.

Rictus let out a cry of horror, but it was short. Before he could retreat one step the figure reached for him, and turning to face Harvey, held his traitorous servant high.

Here, at last, was the evil that had built the Holiday House, shaped more or less as a man. He was not made of flesh, blood and bone, however. He had used the magic Rictus had unwillingly provided to create another body.

In the high times of his evil, Hood had been the House. Now, it was the other way around. The House, what was left of it, had become Mr. Hood.

His eyes were made of broken mirrors, and his face of gouged stone. He had a mane of splinters, and limbs of timber. He had shattered slates for teeth, and rusty screws for fingernails, and a cloak of rotted drapes that scarcely hid the darkness of his heart from sight.

“So, thief—” he said, ignoring Rictus’s pitiful struggles, “you see me as the man was. Or rather, as a copy of that man. Is it what you expected?”

“Yes,” Harvey said. “It’s exactly what I expected.”

“Oh?”

“You’re dirt and muck and bits and pieces,” Harvey said. “You’re nothing!”

“Nothing, am I?” said Hood. “Nothing? Ha! I’ll show you, thief! I’ll show you what I am.”

“Let me kill him for you,” Rictus managed to gasp. “You needn’t bother! I’ll do it!”

“You brought him here,” Hood said, turning his splintered eyes on his servant. “You’re to blame!”

“He’s just a boy. I can deal with him. Just let me do it! Let me—”

Before Rictus could finish Hood took hold of his servant’s head, and with one short motion simply twisted it off. A yellowish cloud of foul-smelling air rose from the severed neck, and Rictus—the last of Hood’s abominable quartet—perished in an instant. Hood let the head go from his hand. It flew up into the air like an unknotted balloon, giving off a farting sputter as it looped the loop and finally fell, emptied, to the ground.

Hood casually dropped the body, which had summarily shrunk to nothing, and turned his mirrored gaze back upon Harvey.

“Now, thief,” he said. “YOU WILL SEE POWER!”

His mane of splinters stood on end, as though every one of them was ready to pierce Harvey’s heart. His mouth grew wide as a tunnel, and a blast of sour, icy air rose from his belly.

“Come closer,” he roared, opening his arms.

The rags that clung there billowed, and spread like the wings of some ancient vampire; a vampire that had dined on the blood of pterodactyl and tyrannosaur.

“Come!” he said again. “Or must I come for you?”

Harvey didn’t waste his breath with a reply. He’d need every gasp he had if he was to outpace this horror. Not even certain what direction he was taking, he turned on his heels and ran, as another blast of soul-freezing air struck him. The ground was treacherous; slippery and strewn with rubble. He fell within six strides, and glanced back to see Hood descending upon him with a vengeful shriek. He hauled himself to his feet—Hood’s rusted nails missing him by a whistling inch—and had taken three stumbling strides from Hood’s shadow when he heard Lulu calling his name.

He veered in the direction of her voice, but Hood caught the collar of his jacket.

“Got you, little thief.” he roared, dragging Harvey back into his splintery embrace.

Before Hood could catch better hold, however, Harvey threw back his arms and pitched himself forward. Off came the jacket, and he made a third dash for freedom, his eyes fixed on Lulu, who was beckoning him toward her.