Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

25 | The Boy Who Never Made A Sound

While Sadie's music played in the adjoining room—and Michael let his secrets slip—Eli sat beneath his father's desk folding sheets of paper and slipping them into an envelope. Sealing the reverse tight, he marked the envelope with a large black D.

Eli crawled into the alcove at the back of Michael's study, squeezing between the stacks of boxes and dusty books. He stopped in front of a wooden door embellished with hundreds of strange, carved faces.

The door leant against the wall. It had been there as long as he could remember. Eli found the faces a little troubling. He'd never looked at them through his Monster Magnifiers for fear they would spring to life.

For now, they remained wooden and shiny and horrible.

Slowly, he reached out and touched one. A ghoulish goblin with pointy ears, a slack-jaw and thin, menacing eyes. He pushed the face until it clicked. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a faint light radiated beneath the door accompanied by a gentle hum. Steadily the light grew, illuminating the carpet.

Eli dropped the envelope and flicked it forward. The letter sat there for a moment, bathing in warm light at the foot of the door, before it vanished with sudden haste, as if someone—or something—had swiped it from the other side. The goblin's face crept forward, clicking back into place.

The light stuttered, went out.

Silence hung in the air for a breath before the sound of Sadie's music returned.

Through the crack in the door he could see his sister. She had her back to him, her arms sweeping across the keyboard.

The music tickled and tempted but didn't take Eli over.

Something skidded along the floor behind him.

He turned, and there, at the foot of the door, sat a yellow envelope. A large E had been written on the front in wet, red ink. Eli grasped it eagerly, turning the letter over in his hands. Before he had time to open it, the study door swung wide allowing light from the library to flood in.

The music had stopped.

Michael appeared, silhouetted in the doorframe. He looked gaunt and thin, like a man made of pipe cleaners. Pouring himself a glass of ziela, Michael sat at his desk, his eyes on the window and the world beyond.

Eli peered through the velvet curtain. He couldn't stay hidden in his father's alcove all day, so he inched forward, crawling across the hardwood floor. He'd got no further than the edge of Michael's desk when he froze. Where was the letter? Eli pulled the notebook out from under his arm. There were a handful of other yellow envelopes protruding from the edge, but not the new one.

The latest one.

The one he had yet to open.

Slowly, he turned and crawled back.

As the curtain closed behind him, a gentle breeze swept through the room. Michael must have sensed it for he swivelled in his chair.

"What are you doing back there?" he smiled, throwing the curtain back.

Eli shrugged, holding his notebook to his chest.

Michael scanned the alcove quickly. His eyes moved over the stacks of boxes, books, the carved wooden door, and an assortment of other strange, dusty paraphernalia.

"Michael? What are you doing in the...Oh, hello, Eli."

Larissa smiled at him, her eyes faint and distant, marbled with veins of grey smoke.

"You shouldn't be in here," she told Eli. "Go and play upstairs. Your father and I have a lot to organise before tonight's New Year's celebrations."

Eli scuttled out of the alcove, passing beneath Michael's outstretched arm, his notebook and the new letter clutched to his chest.