“Why?” demanded Peter, still brushing himself off. “Why did you try to scare us like that?”
“So, I did scare you?” said the little man eagerly.
“Yes!”
The man clapped and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Oh, good, good, good! I do so love a job well done!”
“This is your job?” said Rosemary.
“My life, actually,” said the man. “I’m sorry, haven’t I introduced myself? I am the Fearmonger, and fear is my life.”
“The Fearmonger?” echoed Rosemary.
“I—I’ve never read about a Fearmonger,” said Peter.
“I am not a character,” the Fearmonger bubbled, “but I am in most works of fiction.” He threw his arms wide. “I am the shadow in the corner! I am the ghost that lurks in dark alcoves! I am the twitching doorknob on an unlocked door. Fear is my service to the Land of Fiction.”
“Some service,” snapped Peter, “scaring people out of their wits!” He turned and was suddenly face to face with a living, breathing gargoyle. Its stone tongue lolled.
“Yah!” said the gargoyle.
Peter stumbled back, tripped, and fell to the floor.
The Fearmonger tossed the mask aside. “Got you again!”
Rosemary eyed the Fearmonger and his cheeky grin. “You’re enjoying this!”
“And so are you,” said the Fearmonger. “Look at yourself, Miss Watson: your heart is still beating at twenty percent over its normal rate after your trip through the corridor and your skin is delightfully flushed. How do you feel? Alert, I’ll wager. Excited? Invigorated?”
Despite herself, Rosemary grinned. “Yeah, it was kind of fun.”
“Well, I’m not having fun,” muttered Peter from the floor. Rosemary gave him a guilty glance.
“I am glad I could be of service,” said the Fearmonger. “It is my duty, after all, to test your mettle. Only if you pass me will you be worthy to save your brother, Theo.”
Peter stood up. Rosemary stared at the Fearmonger, wide-eyed.
“Yes, I have followed your every step, Miss Watson,” the Fearmonger continued. “I must say, I am impressed with your performance so far. I had never realized what a brave young person you were.”
“Well, I have to be,” said Rosemary. “Theo’s my brother. This is not some book!”
“Indeed it is not some book.” The Fearmonger began to pace, making slow, measured strides as he strolled around them, his heels clicking on the marble floor. “But I know you, Miss Watson. I’ve looked out at you from almost every book you’ve read. You do not do well with books.”
Rosemary shivered. The room was suddenly colder.
“And now you hunt for the characters who kidnapped your brother — you, yourself, not some figure on the page. You face the risks, now, the terms. And to think of what you face; why, it would make me quake in my boots!”
Rosemary couldn’t get warm. “Wh-what am I facing?”
He came close and whispered over her shoulder. “Only your worst fears.”
She stared at him.
He circled again. “I know you, Miss Watson. I know that, for every four novels you start, three go unfinished. Two get tossed against the wall.”
His footsteps grew heavier. The Fearmonger was taller, now, and getting taller with every step. Peter stood horrified. Puck looked on in silence, his arms folded and his face grim. And it was so cold.
“You are fighting these things, Miss Watson,” the Fearmonger purred, his voice now an octave deeper. “Only, you can’t throw the book down and run away. It will be you falling into the volcano, you facing execution at dawn, you trapped in the tomb, in the dark, with nothing but scarab beetles for company.”
Rosemary clutched her arms around herself to try to keep from quaking.
Peter struggled out of his trance and grabbed her shoulder. “Rosemary, don’t listen to him!”
She could hardly hear him. She couldn’t answer. He turned her around and shouted into her face. “Rosemary! He’s trying to scare you off!”
The Fearmonger leapt at Peter, his face transformed into the face of a snarling wolf. Peter scrambled back.
The Fearmonger pulled off his mask. “Got you a third time!” Then he turned back to Rosemary, leaned over her shoulder, and began whispering into her ear like a bad conscience. “How will you fight, Miss Watson? You have no weapons. How will you face creatures that can fold themselves out of sight? Who will protect you?”
Her gaze shifted up and settled upon Peter.
The Fearmonger chuckled. “The boy? He ran as though ten knights were after him, not just one. What else do you have?”
Rosemary looked at Puck. The Fearmonger followed her gaze. His smile didn’t falter. “You? What can you do to help her?”
Puck smiled and then transformed into a wolf, snarling like the Fearmonger’s mask. Rosemary ducked as he leapt at the Fearmonger.
With a yell of terror, the Fearmonger bolted. He ran. Peter tripped him, and he went down heavily. Rubber masks of all varieties, from ghouls to dentists, burst from the Fearmonger’s coat and skidded across the floor. He cowered as the wolf whirled around, transformed back into Puck, and stood there tapping his foot.
“Got you!” said Puck.
Peter and Rosemary burst out laughing.
The Fearmonger scowled. “That wasn’t funny!” But he couldn’t stop Peter and Rosemary from doubling over with laughter. “Stop it!” he yelled, his voice rising in anger. “Stop laughing at me!”
Rosemary, still giggling, glanced at the Fearmonger. Then she stared in astonishment.
He had been barely five feet tall when she’d first seen him. He was six feet tall when he was circling her. Now he was shorter than her sister Trisha. And he was still shrinking.
As Rosemary and Peter watched, the Fearmonger jumped up and down in fury. “See what you’ve done!” he squeaked.
“What’s happened to you?” asked Rosemary. She started to laugh again.
“It is your laughter, Rosemary,” said Puck. “Laughter is an excellent way to reduce one’s fear.” He picked up the doll-sized Fearmonger and held him at arm’s length. “Now then, little man. How do we leave this house?”
The Fearmonger folded his arms. “I won’t tell you.”
Puck took a deep breath and
