Beyond the Knock Knock Door

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Imprint Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

About the Author

Thrashing the reins, the Red Samurai charged his warhorse higher into the forest, towards battle. Together they thundered up muddy slopes, galloped past waterfalls, leapt over the giant roots of kapok trees and raced beside rivers turning brown with snakes. The tropical downpour soaked their armour and numbed their flesh as they rode closer to danger. Haste was vital. The giant footprints they'd finally uncovered were washing away. Soon they'd lose all trace of the monster.

They reached the upper mountain range when the rainforest began to tremble. Feet scampered from behind ferns and a phantom leapt across the branches. Pulling up his warhorse, the Red Samurai slowed to a canter and moved his hand to the hilt of his longsword. He pressed on, ducking under vines, but fully alert of every animal, shadow and spying eye. All morning he'd expected an ambush and, quite frankly, he welcomed it. The only danger he'd faced since secretly arriving on this island was a bad case of saddle soreness.

Trudging through a patch of passionflowers, the mare's ears pricked before she braced. Her sinews tightened; her nostrils flared; and those big, black eyes rolled. The samurai yanked the reins and heeled her belly. She heaved with hot, angry grunts as she staggered sidewards, throwing her neck and trying to lead him away. Her skittishness wasn't lost on him. He cautiously dismounted and fully drew his blade.

She whinnied as the air shivered and leaves shook unnaturally around them. They each heard a low, distant inhale of breath coming from within the Weeping Mountains that turned into a rasp before quickly shifting into a high-pitched –

SHHHRRRIIIEEEKKK!

The nightmarish scream ripped through their skulls. Shockwave after shockwave hit the Red Samurai, who tore off his antlered helmet and face mask to cover his ears with his hands. Unable to defend himself, he swayed off balance and dropped his sword as the splintering pain crumpled him to his knees. The rainforest became a swirl of green as his mind spun in scribbles of agony. Stags darted from the undergrowth and bats blackened the sky. When the last of these disappeared, so did the shrieking.

Appreciating for the first time the enemy he hunted, the samurai groggily recovered his sword and reached for the saddlebags, only to find his warhorse gone. She'd bolted, taking his bow and arrows. With a grunt, he pulled on his antlered helmet again and re-tied his snarling face mask. It mirrored his feelings.

Undeterred, he pushed on and found a cave mouth running with icy water. It yawned slightly wider than his shoulders, measured as high as two men and smelt of bones. He slid his clan's flag from the back of his red armour and planted its pole near the cave mouth, so if he failed to return, his kinsmen could avenge his death. Pulling a flask of oil from a pouch, he made a torch, lit it with flint, then entered the mountain. There was no hesitation. Nor doubt. He was the second most powerful hero in all the Seven Worlds of Wonder – renowned for his strength, courage and valour. He'd trapped the Nine Bandits of the Endless Desert, survived the Tomb of a Thousand Kings and single-handedly sunk an entire pirate fleet. Killing monsters was his favourite assignment.

He squeezed along the mountain shafts until he discovered a larger cavern, which coursed with a black river and dripped with stalactites ready to spear him dead. As he crept past the giant limestone columns and shawls, his spluttering torch cast shadows across the nooks and crannies that disturbingly looked like hundreds of melting faces.

Suddenly, he stopped and turned, feeling the moist, putrid air shift again before –
SHHHRRRIIIEEEKKK!
– another scream pierced his brain. He lurched side to side with vertigo before crashing to the ground. Desperately, he tried to escape the noise by crawling behind a rock. Another wail shook the cavern as he reached into his pouches for beeswax to plug his ears. The effect was immediate. He could still hear the monster's call, but without the nausea.

The shrieks were growing louder. And closer. The monster was deliberately weakening him before it attacked. With a war cry, he brought the battle to it, charging forward and slashing his sword. But slowly, eyes wild, he lowered his blade as he faced nothing more than an empty cave.

Following the black river, he climbed a broad, slippery shaft and surfaced near the edge of an enormous pool. Beyond it loomed the impossible. So impossible in fact, that what he saw was long thought to be a fairytale.

‘King Amadeo's Ghost!'

It wasn't a ghost as such, but an enormous library. It towered five storeys high with stained-glass windows, green copper domes and statues of stallions pulling war chariots. Titanic iron doors stood broken and twisted, allowing rainwater to cascade down its broad front steps. Beyond them stretched a great marble hall, with red columns, black tiles and yellow balconies, archways and stairwells. It was one of ten such halls filled with reading rooms, scholarly busts and once-mighty tapestries. Centuries of neglect had stripped away the library's beauty, however. Cave-ins had punched holes in the ceiling and destroyed most of the plush furniture and artwork. Mould poisoned the air and rats paddled across the flooded floors.

The elders had told him stories about this place. Five hundred years ago, this world's brash young King Amadeo had ordered his royal architects to build a library big enough to hold a copy of every book, volume or scroll ever written. He decreed
that all merchant ships be boarded and searched for literature, and that every monk travel from village to village to confiscate any texts they found. The king hoped that by bringing together the entire world's knowledge in one place, he'd become the wisest man alive. But his pride was undone by the native people who called these islands their home. He banned them from sharing that same knowledge, fearing that they might learn the arts of science, technology and war. Angered at the decision, the warring Thirteen Tribes formed their very first joint council and agreed to burn down the library. When they besieged the Weeping Mountains, though, to their shock they discovered that the monks had fled and the building itself had vanished. Not a single brick was to be found. A superstitious people, most of the tribes believed that the king's pride had been its own curse – that if the knowledge couldn't be shared, then no one could have it. Some even whispered that the ghost library still existed and that it materialised to a select few. But, if they read a book from its shelves, then they too would be cursed and never be seen again.

Fairytale or not, the Red Samurai waded into the ankle-deep muck and pushed back the darkness with his dim torchlight. He passed between a pair of staircases guarded by marble statues – one reading a scroll and the other chopped off at the knees – before uncovering the first real signs of the monster.

Slung over fixed oil lamps were giant round jaw bones. Jagged with rows and rows of sharp, triangular
teeth, they had once belonged to the fiercest of predators. He tightened the grip on his sword as he lifted up his torch. It seemed the monster that terrorised this world didn't just catch fish for dinner – it hunted great white sharks.

Further along, there were more disturbing clues. A battle had been fought and lost by a native tribe at the top of the left staircase. Spears, netting and skeletons lay in a heap below stonework darkened with scorch marks, and chains dangled from several columns, where prey had been –

SHHHRRRIIIEEEKKK!

The monster's horrible cry echoed throughout the hall, but again the beeswax blocked any vertigo.

Ripples lapped the samurai's ankles, and, turning, he saw a blur race along a far wall, chased by his light. He twirled his sword and checked each shadow, every column. Flapping wings darted out of view among the many floors high above, and a rock tumbled into the muck behind him. He jabbed his torch into the dripping darkness and readied to pounce, not entertaining any thought of retreat. It was better to die a hero facing an enemy than return home a coward.

The air shifted again and he tensed, but the beeswax blocked him from hearing the clicking sound from above.

Long, sharp teeth dropped from the roof and –
CHOMP!

Blackness swallowed his torch.

Monsters also existed on Earth.

Except these three had cold hearts, licorice-stained teeth and very fast bikes.

Sprinting into oncoming traffic, the Thornleigh sisters cut off a city bus, scraped a taxi, dislodged a car's side-view mirror then jumped the footpath. They bowled over a postal courier, splashed an office lady with her own egg curry and scared a man and his wife. Worse, they refused to give way to a howling ambulance. They didn't care. They were hunting. And today's ‘rabbit' was their favourite cry-baby: Michael Bowman.

Run, rabbit. Run.

He raced into another busy street on his rickety skateboard. Two police on horseback yelled at him to halt, but he zipped away, more afraid of the girls. He had long brown hair, a hooded windcheater, baggy pants and a backpack that bounced on his thin shoulders. He tried working up more speed but the street was flat.
The faster he kicked, the harder they pedalled. He'd already shaken them once, weaving among the school's hallways before escaping through the music room and into the afternoon rush.

The oldest sister, April, took the lead. She levelled with him and lunged.
Screeeech!
He cornered hard before launching into a fast food restaurant. ‘Hey! No skateboarding in here!' the manager shouted.
Bump.
A man lost his hamburger and fries. ‘Stop!'

No way! Michael flipped up his board into his hand, scrambled over the counter and scattered coins and Cokes. Ice crunched beneath his feet as the manager tried to grab him. Too late. He barged into the alley and jumped on his ride again. From the crashing, smashing and bellowing, he knew the Thornleighs were right behind.

He scooted past graffiti, bins and wooden pallets. His foot kicked the ground and his skateboard whirled furiously. There was little chance for escape – the alley was long, cluttered and devoid of intersections. Nearby, an animal control inspector slammed a cage on a snarling dog then started up his truck.

Again, April reached Michael first. She was fuelled by anger and cruelty. As she raked at him, he desperately reached out and grabbed the rear of the truck.
Zoom!
He was away!

‘Who's a freak now?' he shouted above the dozens of snapping mutts.

He stayed tight to his ride, zigzagging and performing ollies and kick-flips as they left the
laneway. Eager to enjoy the sour look on the Thornleighs' faces one more time, he grabbed the truck with both hands and swivelled to watch them disappear, only to turn pale. No! They were gaining speed! The inspector was pulling over to see what the dogs were fussing about.

The three sisters leant over their handlebars and swung side to side as they pumped the pedals. When the truck eased towards the corner, Michael let go. He fired across a busy four-way intersection as – ‘Watch out!' – tyres screeched.

It was the diversion he needed. He homed in on a train station and checked his watch. Perfect timing. He flipped up his skateboard, leapt down the steps and rode through the turnstiles, punching his ticket in one smooth motion. He'd made it to the platform when a wreck of chains, rubber and metal crashed behind him. The Thornleighs threw aside their bikes and chased him on foot. He looked down the tunnel and heard the distant horn of the approaching 4.13.
Hurry up! Hurry up!

‘Owww!' he screamed.

‘Try running now, freak!' April said, yanking his long hair.

‘Let me go! Please! Stop!'

‘Grab his bag!'

Her two younger sisters, May and June, wrestled his backpack free as he begged for help. Most commuters stared in shock until a businessman tried separating them. ‘Call the guards!' he ordered.

Finally torn away, April walked backwards along the platform, holding Michael's homework in one hand and his skateboard in the other. ‘Let's see you get an A-plus now, wimp.'

‘No!'

They emptied his homework in front of the train before April bashed his skateboard against a pylon. Chunks of plywood flew across the platform until the same businessman chased them away. Within moments, the transit guards pursued the sisters through the station and caught them at the doughnut stand. Michael knelt to pick up the pieces of his skateboard until another uniformed officer ordered him to his feet. Only the intervention of several witnesses stopped him being frogmarched outside as well. Abandoned and with the train rushing behind him, Michael stood on the platform as the loose pages of his assignment blew about his legs.

Breathing out a shaky sigh and threatening tears, he flopped down on a bench, ran his thumb along the splintered edge of his skateboard and twisted free the back truck that had been all but hammered off. The next train was due in seven minutes – enough time to dry his face. He hated this city. He hated the Thornleighs. He hated school. And he hated being weak. He just wanted to go back to his dad's blueberry farm and play with his two cattle dogs. Everyone was friendly there. Mrs Greenfield, the butcher, gave him free slices of pepperoni. Mr Kidwell allowed him to sit in his used cars for sale – even the twenty-thousand-
dollar models. And Laura Tleige shared her chocolate muffins with him while sneaking glances between blushes in a way that only twelve-year-old girls could understand. Back home everything was calm, spirited and comfortable; not like here – cramped and noisy like an accordion.

Noisy? Then why was the station suddenly so quiet?

He rose in shock. At first glance, everything seemed normal. On his platform, old ladies hugged, a businessman brushed cinnamon sugar from his tie and high school students retreated into their deafening headphones. But as he moved among them he watched with bewilderment as the pair of old ladies waved farewell to each other then walked away, only to snap back for a quick embrace. Again, they waved, walked away then reversed for the same hug. When they did it for a third, fourth and then a fifth time, Michael was so frightened that he backed into a woman repeatedly slurping the same noodle into her mouth. They weren't the only ones. A teenage boy dropped his ticket, only for it to fly back into his hands before it hit the ground. A lawyer swapped her dry-cleaning over and over between shoulders. And commuters shuffled forwards and backwards through the turnstiles. Everyone was trapped in a time stutter.

Except him.

‘Hello?' he called out, afraid to touch them for fear of being trapped as well. ‘Can you hear me?'

A generator whined underground. It was a sad, dying sound like fading power. Soon, the entire station dimmed and the shadows thickened.

Cl-lick – Cl-lick – Cl-lick –

He jumped.

Cl-lick – Cl-lick – Cl-lick –

What was that?

Cl-lick – Cl-lick – Cl-lick –

Those slow, broken sounds?

He almost called out again but sensed danger. There was definitely another person down here with him, maybe a maintenance man coming to fix the generator.

Cl-lick – Cl-lick – Cl-lick –

No, that didn't sound like an electrician. There was no torchbeam or rattle of tools. Maybe it was best for him to leave. But the noise was approaching the turnstiles – his only way out!

Cl-lick! Cl –

The lights powered up suddenly and Michael barrelled into a group of teenagers. ‘Hey! Watch out, kid!' they protested, drawing looks from the other commuters. They gathered their school gear about them and stared as if he was crazy. He looked round the platform, confused to see both old ladies finally walk away, the woman swallow her noodle and the boy pick up and pocket his ticket. People moved freely, as if no longer snared by time.

He stepped away. Maybe he was crazy.

Cl-lick – Cl-lick –

Wait. That noise.

He weaved through the commuters and spotted a homeless man wearing a chequered hat, an olive coat,
several layers of ghastly shirts and a pair of green trousers tucked into football socks. His hair was orange, thinning and slicked back, and he limped with the support of a single aluminium crutch. At least that explained the clicking. Michael breathed, watching him beg for money. Maybe it was the man's appearance or smell, but everyone he asked hurried through the turnstiles with their briefcases, children or parcels held tightly.

The 4.20 approached. Commuters folded their newspapers or collected their shopping bags as a blast of chilly, metallic air preceded the headlights of the train. The shrill of dozens of rolling wheels deafened the platform for a second, before giving way to a ruckus near the turnstiles.

‘Let go of me! That's my train!' the homeless man said, blocked by the transit staff from passing through.

‘No ticket – no train.'

‘I don't need a ticket.'

‘And we don't need you hanging around here.'

The guards tried herding him towards the stairs as commuters turned away, having seen it all before. A few snorted or laughed into their phones. ‘How disgusting,' one girl sniffed.

‘You're hurting me! Let go!'

‘Come on. Crutches or no crutches, you can still walk –'

‘I said I'll find you an extra lousy dollar if you let me!'

The train came to a rest as a recorded voice listed off the designated stations. People inside and out crowded
round the doors, waiting for them to open.

‘Mister,' Michael said, urgently reaching forward. He stood on the other side of the turnstiles, holding out a dollar in change. ‘Here.'

‘Save your money, son,' the first guard said. ‘He'll only waste it on alcohol.'

But Michael offered it again.

The homeless man struggled free then leered down his veiny nose at the twelve-year-old boy and the coins. Without so much as a thank you, he swiped them and teetered off, watched by the guards, who shook their heads.

Michael just squeezed through the closing doors of the train.

Rain fell as he stared out at the grey city. Demolition crews, skyscrapers, peeling billboards and grim-faced police cordoning off a car accident slipped by before the scenery broke into hundreds of dark blotches and became one wet blur. With a sigh, he rested his head against the cold window and dreamt of green fields, tree houses and jumping with his brother and sister into rivers buzzing with dragonflies. Back at the farm, there were no snooty classmates or Thornleigh sisters who made him miserable. And today had been one of his better days.

A passenger prowling between carriages distracted him. He sat upright as, to his amazement, the orange-haired homeless man searched for a seat. But how? He himself had only barely jumped on board – and he already had a ticket. Soon, though, Michael wished he
hadn't. With great theatrics, the homeless man collapsed in the second row, facing the back. He coughed, wheezed, burped and picked his nose, making sure everyone caught the show. Two commuters moved to other seats, while a third clutched her bags, too scared to follow.

Michael's cheeks burned. He felt the other passengers' ire. But his mum had taught him to be kind to those less fortunate than himself. ‘Just because somebody's got dirt on their face doesn't mean you have to treat them like it,' she'd always say. Also, deep down, he'd helped the beggar out of silly bravery. He wanted to prove to himself that the
cl-lick cl-lick
man was nothing more than a harmless fright.

As the beggar quieted to everyone's relief, Michael cast one last uneasy glance towards him and stiffened. Discreetly this time, the man caught a cockroach crawling beside his seat and held it squirming by its antennae. Rather than squashing it underfoot, though, there was a strange shifting behind his coat buttons. A hairy, white claw shot out, snatched the bug then vanished!

Michael blinked. At first, the stranger ignored him. But then he turned with a cold, festering stare that forced Michael to look away.

Five stops later, he was still stunned as a rush of umbrellas, newspapers and sprinters dashed past him into waiting cars, leaving him soaked at the bottom of the station. He plodded upwards to street level when
someone barged past and knocked his shoulder. ‘Hey!' he protested, until he noticed it was the homeless man striding three steps at a time.

In his haste, the beggar dropped something small, brown and leather. Reaching the top, Michael picked up the wallet. It contained cash. Lots of cash.

‘Wait! Mister!'

But the homeless man was gone. And he no longer used a walking crutch.