Watch Hollow

  Dedication

  For Abby.

  And, as always, for my daughter.

  Epigraph

  “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

  —H. P. Lovecraft

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  One: Mr. Quigley’s Proposal

  Two: Bags and Bigsbys

  Three: Into the Woods

  Four: Blackford House

  Five: Torsten

  Six: The Boy in the Woods

  Seven: The Crow Takes Notice

  Eight: Who is the Garr?

  Nine: Oliver’s Head, Inside and Out

  Ten: The Caretaker

  Eleven: Lucy Meets the Garr

  Twelve: Teddy’s Revenge

  Thirteen: The Nightmare Begins

  Fourteen: Bad Alchemy

  Fifteen: A Sort of Homecoming

  Sixteen: Goodbye & Good Morning

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The rat, Fennish Seven, pumped his legs harder toward the river. He could see a circle of moonlight now at the edge of the woods—about thirty yards ahead, at the end of the tunnel of trees. But the Garr was gaining fast.

  “I WANT YOUR FEAR, FENNISH SEVEN!” he bellowed.

  The earth shook with the giant’s footsteps—boom, boom, boom!—and then came the thunderous crack of splitting tree limbs.

  Startled, Fennish stumbled and nearly fell, then quickly found his footing again and took off down the leaf-strewn path. He didn’t dare look back—the rat was so frightened, he could hardly breathe.

  “THERE IS NO ESCAPE, SEVEN!” the giant cried again—closer now, boom, boom, boom!—and Fennish turned on a final burst of speed. His heart hammered, and his legs throbbed painfully. Twenty yards—boom!—ten yards—boom, boom, boom!—and then the rat hurled himself out of the woods and into the moonlight. He scrambled down the riverbank and leaped for the water when, without warning, a pair of sharp talons dug into his flesh and snatched him up in the air.

  It was the giant’s bird—the traitor, Tempus Crow.

  “Aaaagggghhh!” cried Fennish, struggling against the crow’s grasp; and then the Garr’s laughter, deep and croaking, echoed through the woods.

  “YOU ARE MINE, SEVEN!”

  Fennish Seven twisted and thrashed as Tempus Crow carried him higher, and then, somehow, the rat craned his head back over his shoulder and sank his teeth into the underside of the great bird’s thigh. It was the old wound, still tender from the first time they’d fought, and with an ear-splitting “Caw!” the traitor released him.

  Fennish tumbled head over tail through the darkness; but just before he splashed down in the river, he caught sight of the Garr’s red, burning eyes glaring hatefully at him through the trees.

  After that, everything went black.

  One

  Mr. Quigley’s Proposal

  The long black car brought the rain. Or was it the other way around? Lucy Tinker could never be sure, but in the end, it didn’t matter. There was darkness in both.

  Lucy watched the car from her father’s storefront window, her eyes peering out through the backward O and C in CLOCK as if the painted letters were spectacles. The car had been sitting there for about fifteen minutes. So had Lucy, cross-legged, in a spot once occupied by a large mantel clock her father had sold the day before.

  If any strangers had been passing by Tinker’s Clock Shop that day, they might have thought Lucy were for sale, too, wedged as she was among the other objects in the window. There were clocks, of course, but also two Chinese vases, a painting of a poodle in a tutu, and a rusty old tuba.

  “No, Pop, you need to move the decimal point over two spaces,” Oliver said. He was helping their father balance the books on the ancient laptop behind the counter—and from the sound of things, Pop wasn’t happy.

  “You mean we lost six hundred and forty dollars? Not six dollars and forty cents?”

  “And I haven’t even factored in the interest on the line of credit yet.”

  Mr. Tinker groaned and held his head in his hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have bought that tuba!”

  Oliver met Lucy’s eyes and shrugged. He’d warned Pop not to branch out into antiques. But Pop hadn’t listened, and it had cost him big-time. Lucy wasn’t sure how much, only that, over the last year, there had been less money to spend on groceries each week.

  Lucy sighed and swiveled her eyes up to an old cuckoo clock on the wall. Only three minutes left until closing. Three little ticks on the big hand and then cuckoo!—her punishment was over. That’s what you got for fighting these days: five days of hard labor in the clock shop. Didn’t matter that the fight was on the last day of school, or that Betty Bigsby had it coming. Pop wouldn’t listen. Pop never listened.

  Lucy hated being cooped up in her father’s shop. It was smaller than the other stores on their dingy city street and smelled like an old shoe, not to mention the constant chorus of ticking drove her bonkers. But that’s the way life was sometimes, right? You had to roll with the punches. And when Betty Bigsby yanked her braid and called her a food stamp freak . . . well, Lucy was pretty good at rolling out some punches of her own.

  Lucy’s eyes drifted back to the car outside. The rain had changed direction, and she could now make out the shadow of a man in the driver’s seat.

  “What are you waiting for, superstar?” Lucy muttered as she twirled her single braid of black hair between her fingers. Yeah, whoever this guy was, he had to be rich with a set of wheels like that. Maybe if he bought something, Pop would forget about how bad business was. At least for a little while.

  “Why don’t you close up, Ollie?” he said, still hunched over the computer, and Oliver ducked out from beneath the counter.

  “Hold up a sec,” Lucy said, and she jerked her chin at the car. “I think this dude’s waiting for the rain to die down.”

  Oliver pushed his glasses higher on his nose and peered out from behind the shop’s Open sign. “He’s not coming in here,” he said. “Probably just lost or something.”

  “How much you want to bet?”

  “Loser does the laundry solo tomorrow.”

  The children shook hands on it, and in the next moment, the clocks in the shop began to chime. At the same time, a big black umbrella blossomed out from the car and began heading straight for the door. Lucy smiled smugly.

  “Have fun,” she said, holding up a peace sign, and Oliver sighed and joined their father again behind the counter. The customer bell dinged, and a small, somewhat round, elderly gentleman dressed in black entered the store.

  “Mr. Tinker, I presume?” he said, removing his hat. The old man appeared to be bald except for a pair of white tufts above his ears, but it was hard to tell because he wore a bandage on his head. Beneath his large nose was a bushy white mustache, and he sounded British, Lucy thought—like one of those rich snots from Weston.

  “Er—yes, that’s me,” Mr. Tinker said, fingering his collar.

  “Ah, the legend himself!” the old man said, and he hung up his hat and umbrella on the coat rack. “Forgive me for calling on you so late in the day, Mr. Tinker, but I’d hoped to avoid an unwanted shower.”

  The old man chuckled and coughed into a handkerchief.

  “How can I help you, Mr.—?”

  “Quigley,” he said, straightening the bandage on his head. “Mortimer Quigley. And you are Charles Tinker, clocksmith extraordinaire.” Mr. Tinker just stared back at the old man blankly. “You are the same Charles Tinke
r who repaired the city clock tower after the infamous lightning strike ten years ago, aren’t you?”

  “Oh that! Yes—that’s me. But it was hardly anything—er—legendary.”

  “Don’t be modest,” said Mr. Quigley, wagging his finger. “The way I hear it, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put that clock together again—that is, until Charles Tinker came along.”

  Mr. Tinker blushed. “Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but—”

  “And who’s that hiding there behind you?” asked Mr. Quigley, his eyes landing on Oliver.

  “Er—this is my son, Oliver. He just turned thirteen. And over there in the window is my daughter, Lucy. She’s eleven.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re planning on selling her along with that tuba?”

  Mr. Quigley chuckled and coughed again into his handkerchief.

  “That might not be a bad idea,” Mr. Tinker said flatly, and Lucy pursed her lips. She knew her father was joking, but his words stung just the same. Oliver was his favorite. They were a lot alike, father and son—tall, skinny, redheaded, and both whizzes when it came to fixing things. Lucy, on the other hand, could hardly fix a sandwich, and looked nothing like her father. She was short for her age, with long raven hair that she always wore in a braid just like her mother used to.

  Her mother . . .

  Lucy’s heart twisted. She missed her mom more than she could stand sometimes. It had been two years since the cancer took her, but the missing still always hit Lucy as it did now—sudden and heavy in her chest, like the torrential rain that had descended on the city just as the long black car arrived.

  Mr. Quigley regarded Lucy sympathetically, as if he were reading her mind.

  “Well, thank goodness at least one thing in that window is priceless,” the old man said with a wink, and Lucy felt the corners of her lips turn up in a smile.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Quigley?”

  “Charles Tinker, I have a business proposal for you.” Mr. Quigley slipped a small velvet pouch out from under his coat and plopped it on the counter with a clink. “Before we address the details, however, might I suggest we speak in private?”

  Mr. Tinker’s eyes darted awkwardly between his children. “Oliver is my right-hand man. Anything you can say to me you can say to him. And Lucy there—well—”

  “Say no more, Warden,” she said, hopping down. “So, I’m officially on parole?”

  Mr. Tinker smiled thinly. “You’ll have to excuse my daughter, Mr. Quigley. She’s been grounded all week. Fighting at school. Not the first time.”

  Lucy’s cheeks grew hot. True, it wasn’t the first time—and not the second or third time either—but it wasn’t as if Betty and those other clowns didn’t deserve it. And why did Pop have to go and tell Mr. Quigley?

  “I understand,” said Mr. Quigley, and his face grew serious. “It’s none of my business, but I too lost someone very dear to me at a young age. Children deal with grief differently, Mr. Tinker, but I’ve always believed that, in the end, all they really need is someone to listen.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung about the shop, and yet Lucy swore the ticking of the clocks grew louder. The Tinkers didn’t know what to say.

  “How did you know?” Mr. Tinker asked finally, and Mr. Quigley nodded at the picture of Lucy’s mother hanging behind the counter—her old headshot from when she was with the Boston Ballet. Eyes confident and yet vulnerable, the corners of her mouth turned up in a knowing smile—just like the Mona Lisa, Lucy’s father always said.

  “I do not enter into business arrangements without doing my homework,” said Mr. Quigley. “And so, allow me to express my condolences on the loss of your wife.”

  “Yes—er—thank you,” said Mr. Tinker, shifting uneasily on his feet. “Lucy, why don’t you throw that leftover pizza into the microwave. This shouldn’t take too long.”

  Lucy nodded and walked in a daze toward the family’s tiny, one-room apartment at the back of the shop. She’d been counting the minutes to this moment all day, but now . . . what a strange guy this Mr. Quigley was! And before she realized what she was doing, Lucy hid under her father’s worktable and listened.

  “Very well, then,” said Mr. Quigley. “I come to you in desperate need of your services at Blackford House.”

  “I’m sorry—Blackford House?”

  “The name of my new home. It is located in Watch Hollow, Rhode Island, and was originally constructed with a magnificent clock in one of its walls. I acquired the house a few months ago, you see, and am in the process of renovating it before relocating permanently to the States from my native England.”

  Lucy peeked out from behind the worktable. Her father and Mr. Quigley were still by the cash register, but Oliver had drifted away somewhat and was staring straight at her from behind the counter. The idiot—he was going to blow her cover. Lucy motioned for him to turn back to the adults, and with a roll of his eyes, Oliver did.

  “Surely you didn’t have to travel all the way up from Rhode Island to find someone who could fix this clock of yours, Mr. Quigley.”

  “Oh, I did find someone else, but he could make neither head nor tail of it. You see, the clock in question is no ordinary clock. It generates electricity for the entire house, which is presently without power. Thus, the clock needs to be repaired before I can move in. Only a man of your expertise can get the job done in a timely manner—no pun intended.” Mr. Quigley chuckled and coughed into his handkerchief. “Even so, I expect the job will take at least a few weeks, which is why my offer is contingent on your residence at Blackford House.”

  “But Mr. Quigley, I just can’t up and leave my children. I’m all they have.”

  “You misunderstand me. Your children are to come with you. There are adequate servants’ quarters located in the rear of the house, and all your needs shall be provided for. The only stipulation is that you get the job done, no questions asked. And, of course, you shall be compensated handsomely for your . . . discretion.”

  Mr. Quigley dumped out what looked like a dozen or so gold coins from the velvet pouch onto the counter.

  “I—er—” Mr. Tinker stammered. “Forgive me, Mr. Quigley, but where I come from, if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.”

  “I assure you, both my offer and these coins are genuine.” Mr. Quigley fished out a business card from his pocket and slid it across the counter. “A quick Google search should suffice as a background check. However, should you care to speak to someone personally about my reputation, I’ve listed the phone numbers for some of my associates in London on the back of my card. Just remember the five-hour time difference.”

  Mr. Quigley chuckled and gave another cough into his handkerchief, and as her father examined the business card, Lucy realized that her heart was pounding. Pop was right—the whole thing sounded too good to be true.

  “Those coins are only a tenth of what I intend to pay you for your services,” said Mr. Quigley, adjusting his bandage, and Mr. Tinker’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Oliver’s, too. “Do not look so shocked, Mr. Tinker. Your luck has finally taken a turn for the better. And if you’ll forgive the intended pun, I’d say it’s about time.”

  Mr. Quigley chuckled and began coughing violently into his handkerchief. Oliver handed him a bottle of Poland Spring from the fridge under the counter, and the old man gulped the water down greedily.

  “Thank you, lad,” he said, wiping his mouth. Mr. Quigley set down the bottle and moved to the coatrack. “Consider the gold there an advance on your salary. And should you accept my offer, your services are to commence the day after tomorrow.”

  Mr. Tinker fingered his collar nervously. “But—that’s hardly enough time to—”

  “Indeed, time is of the essence,” the old man interrupted, carefully squeezing his hat onto his bandaged head. “My affairs in London require my presence there within the week. However, if this is too much of an inconvenience, perhaps you might refer me to someone el
se?”

  “No, no,” Mr. Tinker said quickly. “It’s just that—well—I’ll have to check these out.” He nodded at the coins, and Mr. Quigley smiled and grabbed his umbrella.

  “But of course,” he said, heading for the door. Mr. Tinker followed him. “You can reach me with your decision at the number on my card. Say, by noon tomorrow?” Mr. Tinker nodded, and Mr. Quigley tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, then.”

  Mr. Quigley left, dinging the customer bell, and the constant chorus of ticking once again grew louder in Lucy’s head. Was Pop really going to drag them down to Rhode Island? Both the swim club and karate camp at the Y started on Monday. And what about her summer soccer league at the park? Lucy was their best goalie!

  “Pop, there are ten of these,” Oliver said—he’d moved over to the coins while Lucy was daydreaming. “They’re one ounce each. Meaning, if these are real—”

  “I know.” Mr. Tinker flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the door.

  “Last I checked, the price of gold was twelve hundred bucks per ounce!” Oliver’s voice cracked shrilly on “ounce.”

  Math wasn’t Lucy’s strong suit, but even she knew that ten times twelve hundred was twelve thousand. And if what Mr. Quigley said was true, twelve thousand was one tenth of—

  “One hundred and twenty thousand doll-ars!” Oliver cried, his voice cracking again. “We can pay off the line of credit and still have plenty left over!”

  Oliver whirled and began furiously tapping away on the laptop, while Mr. Tinker scooped up the coins and brought them over to the worktable. He was so preoccupied, he didn’t even notice Lucy as she stepped aside to make room for him.

  “Pop,” Lucy began, but her father raised his hand to shush her. He sat down at the worktable and removed a small vial of liquid from the drawer. Then he made a tiny scratch on the edge of one of the coins and, using the vial’s dropper, applied a small drop of the liquid to the scratch.

  “No reaction to the nitric acid,” he said. “This one looks legit.”

  Lucy watched in numb fascination as her father tested each coin, and by the time he had finished, his hands were visibly shaking with excitement. All the coins were real. Twelve thousand dollars in real gold sitting right there on his worktable. Lucy had never seen so much money in her life. Neither had her father, from the looks of him.