Texting the Underworld Read Online Free PDF

approaches. That I
do
know.”
    Conor tried to imagine this sturdy, red-haired girl turning into a wispy ghost in the form of an old hag.
    She poked him in the chest. “If I should transform—”
    â€œI know, I know. Anyone who sees you will die.” Conor’s spine turned to ice. “You keened before, outside. Did anybody see you?”
    â€œIf they did, they’re before the Lady now. Dead, I suppose you’d say. Dear Departed.”
    Forgetting to be quiet, Conor rushed to the front hall window. He hurled it open and thrust his head out. No corpses on the moonlit sidewalk. He almost cried with relief.
    â€œPixie?” His mother, from his parents’ room, sounding sleepy. “What are you doing?”
    â€œJust . . . just throwing a dead spider outside.”
    â€œAnother one? Why didn’t you throw it out your own window?”
    There was no good answer. “I don’t know.”
    â€œGo to sleep, Pixie. It’s late.”
    As he closed the window, he heard his father’s blanket-muffled voice. “What does he think, the dead spider’s going to crawl in his window and get him back?”
    â€œGo to sleep, Brian.”
    Conor crept back to his room and shut the door.
I have to get some sleep. It’s a school night.
    â€œNobody dead?” Ashling was standing on his bed for a closer look at his Grand Canyon poster.
    â€œYou don’t care?”
    She regarded him calmly. “Why should I? They go to the Lady, get another life.”
    â€œYou said your life was cruelly taken from you by the dreaded raiders of the Dahl Fyet’ugh. Other people don’t like losing their lives, either.”
    Ashling lifted off from the bed and floated to the floor. This time, her braid stayed in midair. She looked like she was underwater.
    Exhaustion dropped on Conor like an ax. He wanted it to be four hours ago, when all he had to worry about was pre-algebra and a spider in his sheets. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
    â€œGood night, Conor-boy.” She crawled back into the cupboard and pulled the door shut behind her.
    Conor got to sleep at daybreak. When he woke an hour later, he again convinced himself it had all been a bad dream. But he peeked into the game cupboard and there was Ashling, sound asleep, red hair unbraided and spread out on the pillow, red cloak over her like a blanket, her shoes stashed on top of Monopoly.
    The game cupboard smelled like woodsmoke and wet earth. As he crouched there, watching her and wondering what would happen next, Conor thought he heard . . . something, a lone flute, the tune just beyond the reach of his memory. The back of his neck prickled.
    Somebody coughed, down in the kitchen. Conor froze. Was somebody sick?
    Out the bedroom door, down the stairs in a panicky blur. He skidded into the kitchen to see his parents standing back to back near the coffeemaker, shoulders tense, each with a folded section of the newspaper in hand. His mother was dressed for work at the clinic. His father was in his mailman uniform, his feet pointed toward the back door.
    Glennie was ready for school, peering hopefully into the granola sack even though she knew the contents never had been and never would be Honey-Glazed Nutsos.
    â€œIt’s seven-oh-five,” his mom said when she saw Conor. “Where are your clothes?”
    â€œWho’s sick?” Conor panted.
    Everybody stared at him as if he were some kind of Nutso himself.
    â€œNobody’s sick,” his dad replied. “My watch says seven-oh-seven.”
    â€œSomebody coughed.”
    â€œThat was me,” said his mom. “I choked on some granola.”
    â€œStuff could kill ya,” his dad said. “Why’re you still in your pj’s? What time you think it is?”
    â€œThere’s . . . there’s a thing,” Conor said.
    â€œThere’s always a thing,” Glennie said