A pair of watchful eyes beneath a blue conductor's cap glanced at Blenny from the rearview mirror, corners creased in a mirthful smile.

The bus coasted onward.

Of the other two pa.s.sengers, one was an obese, mustachioed man with s.h.a.ggy blondish hair and cracked bifocals who sat clutching a walker. He dozed in and out of a snore-filled, drooling sleep, jerking awake when the bus. .h.i.t a pothole only to stare blankly ahead until dozing off again. The other pa.s.senger, a stooped old lady in a violet polyester coat with rows of huge cloth b.u.t.tons, continually startled Blenny and the mustachioed man with loud, random exclamations wondering where "the kitty" was.

Blenny had almost fallen asleep when the driver belted out, "Oh, we are getting so much closer!" shouting the last word so loud Blenny jumped in his seat.

At the volume spike of the word 'closer,' the fat man opened his eyes and glared at the driver, clearly irritated out of his slumber. The old lady cast him her own gimlet glare.

"Where's the kitty?" she snapped. "Is he hiding near the planter? For G.o.d's sake, Albert, I told you to close the door!"

Blenny pooched his lip out. "For crying out loud! There's no kitty here!"

Blenny looked over at the obese man, and noticed a wetness spreading around his crotch. The guy noticed him staring. He smiled in return, exposing broken rows of jaundiced pegs.

"Stop! That man peed his pants!" yelled Blenny, pointing.

The fat man just uttered a phlegmy gurgle deep in his chest.

The old lady chimed in. "Where's the kitty? For G.o.d's sake, Albert, did you leave the door open again?"

"There's no kitty!" yelled Blenny. He knew his mother would never tolerate him yelling at a stranger, but after the weird, stressful day he'd endured, he felt like he was going to explode. "There's no surprise! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

Seized by panic, he yanked his hood over his face, grimacing. For crying out loud, what was this? Where was Clifford? Why was this happening? He had to get off this bus.

The harsh neon overhead lights began to blink; the rearview mirror reflected a pair of watchful eyes under a blue conductor's cap and a slowly widening grin.

Blenny was so distressed, he failed to notice that a huge black spider with a body like an arthritic knuckle had lowered itself onto his shoulder. When its furry black shape finally caught his eye, he leaped up and began jumping up and down screaming b.l.o.o.d.y murder.

"Icky bug, icky bug!" he yelled, beating at his coat.

The obese man stared, smiling a vacant, demented smile. The old lady joined in the fracas, screaming "Get the kitty! Albert, get the kitty! Blenny! Albert! Get the kitty!"

It was too much for Blenny to handle. He bellowed out one final "Uuuuhhh," then fainted dead away in his seat.

Blenny awoke on the side of a residential street that he had never before seen in his life. The lampposts glowing like torches in the dark told him that some time had pa.s.sed; how much, he didn't know, for he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. All he knew was that his hands and ears felt like the ice block turkeys his mom stored in the freezer for their dinners, and his head ached something fierce. He scrambled for his mittens, then looked around.

Slowly and arduously, he squinted his eyes and sounded out a signpost: Bleak Street, it read. Fear as bright and lethal as blood slithered down his spine. Where was he? Did Cyrus put him here? For crying out loud, he'd never get to Shop-Rite now.

He buried his face in the orange cotton of his coat to escape the bitter wind. It was nighttime now: the stars gleamed like needle tips in a very dark, very cold winter sky. Mr. Fairweather would be very concerned by now, and would probably even have called his parents. He'd better hurry up and find someone to help him out of here.

On the left side of the road was a blacktopped parking lot in front of a two-story brown building. No lights shone in any of its many rows of windows. It radiated an aura like a haunted beehive; Blenny knew there was no one there to help him.

On the other side of the road was a small baseball diamond lit by a few tall streetlights. In the distance, a high stand of pines shivered and huddled as if clutching each other desperately for warmth. There was not a single person in sight.

Being alone like this was scary, but not as scary as being on the bus with those crazy people, or being with Cyrus. He thought of Cyrus' lunatic laughter, and uttered a quiet, "Uuuhh."

Apparently, there was no living creature near this wasted street, except...

Blenny jumped as an emaciated black dog seemed to materialize in the middle of the street.

Its eyes were rolled back in its head. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, spraying foamy spittle. Patches of its fur were missing. It possessed only stumps for hind legs, so it dragged its hindquarters along the ground, jerking its head spasmodically from side to side as it heaved along toward him.

Ordinarily, Blenny loved dogs, but this was not a dog he wanted to pet.

"Icky dog, icky dog!" he yelled, and ran down the road and across the baseball diamond, feeling like a bug about to be squashed by an enormous fly swatter descending from above. He could feel danger crackling in every direction. His thoughts were jumbled, as if the airwaves in his mind had been inundated by a barrage of criss-crossing radio signals.

Icky dog! Icky bug!

Where is everyone? Where are all the cars?

(Wild ride today...Surprise!) Scattered lines of small, vacant houses flew past him as he ran, conjuring images of a broken Christmas miniature village on a haunted mantelpiece. His sides ached, and the November draft stung his cheeks and seared his lungs, but still he pressed on-until, what seemed like hours later, Blenny rounded the pine stand and stumbled upon a village.

He breathed hard, looking wildly around for someone, anyone. Something seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

Ghosts.

Blenny rapped balled fists on his head, clenching his eyes shut. "Sh-sh-shut up," he muttered. There's no such thing as ghosts. Dad said so. He tried to sing over the bad thoughts.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round..."

Ghosts...Not Real!

"...all through the town."

The village was like a trailer court, only instead of trailers, there were about twenty busses lying on their sides and roofs in an overgrown lot surrounded by pines. Wheels spun lackadaisically in the wind. Some busses were half-buried in the snow. Many of their windows were broken, and all looked like felled dinosaurs being slowly devoured by the elements.

A hum vibrated throughout the lot. It sounded like something mechanical, electrical...

There must be someone here!

Blenny stepped uncertainly forward. "H-h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? S-somebody, please help! I'm lost!"

No answer.

Suddenly, he heard a thud. He jumped, looking around wildly; nothing...then, a voice: "Over here, Blenny. Come, now." The voice was an old lady's thin, papery cackle. A light popped on in one of the busses.

Shaking, Blenny trudged toward it. He didn't want to go on that icky dead bus, but what choice did he have? He couldn't stand around freezing to death in the cold. He

proceeded on, hands clutching his forearms and singing a monotone, tuneless song:

"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round..."

The lighted bus was sunken a few feet into the snow. Blenny mounted its two visible steps.

Before he could even raise his hand to knock, the doors opened, presenting a woman so old she reminded Blenny of a scarecrow. He looked down to where she sat in her wheelchair. She was bald and wore white petticoats with a stained but elaborate-looking poplin dress. Her eyes were gray discs hovering above a red-rimmed horizon.

"Come in," she croaked. "I am Iris p.u.b.efant."

The b.u.t.terflies in Blenny's stomach flared up anew, beating mad wings upon tight prison walls. This was a bad, bad place, and that old lady was bad too.

But he needed help him finding his way home. Mom and Dad must be beside themselves by now, and he knew that Mr. Fairweather would be, too.

Iris backed her wheelchair down the aisle. With one brittle white hand, she gestured Blenny in. Immediately, the nostril-choke of cat p.i.s.s a.s.saulted Blenny's nose. His mouth hung ajar. He was so petrified he didn't even think to spell his name out for Iris in his customary introduction.

The second thing Blenny noticed was a gla.s.s fruit bowl sitting lamely on the driver's seat. Rummage sale yellows and faded purples proclaimed the knick-knack's antiquity with melancholy layers of dust. The spirit of the entire bus village seemed contained within this one object.

Blenny looked beyond the fruit dish, and gasped.

The bus was filled with dolls.

Hundreds of them lined the seats. They stared back at Blenny with faded gla.s.s eyes that looked as though they had witnessed centuries elapse. Most were cracked so badly, Blenny thought they would crumble to dust if he dared to put even one finger to their ancient porcelain cheeks.

Wordless images filled Blenny's mind. The dolls-so old, so melancholy, so brittle-had survived centuries only to become the lonely relics of dead children. Although the children (the dolls had belonged to) had long ago lived, died, and long lay in their graves, he knew that the dolls themselves were very much alive.

Blenny goggled. There was an army of dolls here-they could easily converge upon him and tear the skin off his bones with their dull porcelain teeth, if they so desired. He knew that they would laugh with the voices of dead children as they did.