How fascinating would it be to visit all the books you have ever read? You know perfectly well who lives on their pages, but what about between them? What about characters that get lost, disfigured, or worse, depart from life? Where do they go?

Our friends were about to find out.

They crept on their hands and knees through tunnel after tunnel after tunnel. Scattered light that seeped out of nowhere illuminated the fibrous walls, made of grey paper pulp. The air smelled like wet cardboard, and it got colder the deeper they went. It wouldn't have been half bad, if not for a new unexpected problem.

First one, then a couple more, then a whole cluster of ghostly shapes appeared, casually floating in the air. They quivered and curled and fizzed. And then they started talking.

"Badlings," they whispered, "look, here come new badlings...where are you off to...stay with us...we are in no hurry...we have no homes...why won't you talk to us...we are so lonely..."

"What are these things?" whispered Peacock.

"They're like jellyfish!" Rusty stretched out a hand.

"Um," said Grand. "I don't think it's a good idea to touch them."

"Why not, man? They're so cool and slimy. Look, I think they like it." The shape he stroked undulated, its empty mouth stretching into something that could be called a creepy smile.

"You and your petting, Rusty. Leave them alone. Let's keep moving," said Bells crossly and then suddenly stopped.

Peacock bumped into her. "What's the holdup?"

She stared at a yawning face next to her.

"Badling..." sighed the face, "lovely badling...stay with us...there is no hurry..."

"Er," said Bells, "I'm really sorry, whoever you are, but we need to get out of here to get to the next page. If you don't mind?"

But the apparition did mind. It was joined by scores of others who blocked the tunnel with a multitude of their foggy bodies, reducing the visibility to that of milk.

"Fantastic," commented Peacock. "What are we going to do now?"

"Move forward, you dupe," snapped Bells. "What else?"

"Hey, I thought we agreed on not calling me names."

Bells regarded him with a stink eye. "We didn't agree on anything, and I will keep calling you names until you stop asking stupid questions and acting like a coward."

Peacock was about to parry, but a particularly large phantom sallied up to within an inch of his nose and hung there, whispering garbled nonsense. "Shoo. Shoo!" He waved it away. His fingers passed through its gelatinous surface and he uttered a horrified whimper.

"There is my proof," said Bells and rolled her eyes to solidify the sweet feeling of superiority.

"Rusty, you sure it's not going to bite off your hand?" asked Grand worriedly.

Rusty, unperturbed, an exuberant grin shining on his face, was petting something teethy and horrendous. It didn't exactly have a body or any kind of a presence, except an ethereal head that seemed to enjoy the attention. It tilted back so Rusty could scratch whatever was left of its neck.

"Over here...yes, right here...a bit to the left..." it directed him in a nasal voice. "Ohhh...this feels so good...I haven't been properly scratched in a millennia..."

"You're not alone...move over...it's our turn now..." murmured the voices belonging to a line of spooks that were eager for some tenderness.

Grand pulled Rusty by the hand, breaking this lovely exchange of pleasantries to the pouty dismay of the apparitions that immediately glided after Rusty, nuzzling to him to solicit another dose of affection.

Bells stopped again.

To the left and to the right branched out more burrows and hollows and passages than she could count.

"You know what?" she said, thinking out loud. "Maybe it's a good thing that we're here. At least we can rest for a bit and think, without every character trying to catch us or Mad Tome throwing us from page to page."

"Do you have any idea why they're trying to do that?" asked Peacock in an attempt to forge peace. He even made a conciliatory face.

Bells regarded him suspiciously. "Are you trying to make fun of me?"

"No, I'm not. Honest."

"Cut it out, Peacock. I know as much as you do."

"No, seriously," he said without a trace of sarcasm.

Bells sighed. "I can only guess."

"Um," began Grand, but Peacock overrode him. 

"And? What did you guess so far?"

"You don't like to tax your brain with thinking, do you?" She sensed a change in the air.

The diaphanous glops around them huddled and tensed.

"Well, here is one thing I guessed," said Bells a little louder. "I'm not sure why the characters are trying to catch us, but I'm sure what these things are." She waved vaguely. "They're ghosts."

There was a general susurration of agreement.

"I see that much," said Peacock disappointedly. "But whose ghosts are they?"

Bells was gripped by an idea. She willed herself not to smile, although the corners of her lips turned upward. "Ghosts of ducks."

"Ducks?" repeated Peacock.

"Ducks?" asked Grand and Rusty.

"Ducks?" scattered through the hazy crowd.

"You know, ducks die too," continued Bells in a very serious tone. "So why can't they have ghosts like people?"

"I thought, as a scientist, you don't believe in ghosts," delivered Peacock smugly.

"I was just getting to that," said Bells, keeping her cool. "You're absolutely correct. Scientifically speaking, ghosts can't exist. But, as a scientist, I must trust my senses. If I can touch it, that means it's there." She demonstrated on the nearest ghost, unceremoniously plunging in her hand. In the next moment she yanked it out.

"Yuck! It's cold and slimy!"

"I will see...what you will become...when you are dead...badling," moaned the ghost unpleasantly. "I don't like you...I like that other badling...better." It floated up to Rusty.

"Fine. Suit yourself," said Bells, trying to sound brave.

The rest of the ghosts pushed closer to her in an angry, muttering wave. "We are not ghosts of ducks...what nonsense is that...we are ghosts...of characters...and of badlings..."

Bells' throat constricted. She was right. They fell for it like flies for honey. Only instead of triumph she was flooded with horror. "Are you really ghosts of badlings?" she asked.

"Good work, Bells," said Grand.

Peacock gaped at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I get it!" exclaimed Rusty. "So Grand told me how Bluebeard axed his page, right? Maybe when the page is gone, the characters are gone too? Like, if they don't go to some other page, they become ghosts?"

"Smart badling..." clamored the ghosts.

"But why are they after us? The characters? What do they want?" asked Bells. She wanted to ask more questions, other questions, and had to force herself to stop, afraid to break the delicate trust they had established.

"Um," began Grand again, and again was interrupted by Peacock.

"Hey, ghosts. What's a badling anyway?" he said. "Come on, tell us. Don't just hang there like some sorry clumps of fog."

"Peacock!" cried Bells, horrified.

"What?"

"You're hurting their feelings."

"I thought you were the expert of that," he said acidly.

Bells ignored him. "I'm sorry, ghosts, he didn't mean to offend you..." She trailed off.

There was no one to talk to. The spell was broken. The ghosts whirled up in a tide of vapor and dispersed along the length of the tunnel.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" demanded Peacock, pressing into the wall under the glares of his friends.

"Did something happen to him?" asked Grand quietly, speaking into Bells' ear.

She shrugged. "Nothing I can think of. He's been like that since that Red Death place. No matter what I say, he gets all upset and irritated."

They exchanged a glance.

Bells crawled up to Peacock. "Hey, what's wrong?"

He crossed his arms. "Why do you care? Leave me alone."

"What is it?" pressed Bells.

Peacock looked away and mumbled something.

"Listen. If you tell us, you'll feel better. I promise."

"Nice try, Bells," he scoffed, but without acidity.

"Come on, Peacock," called Rusty. "What's up, man?"

"Shut up." Despite his best efforts, Peacock sounded miserable.

"All right, you know what? Stop being a baby and man up!" commanded Bells. "Either tell us what's going on, or sit there all upset and alone, because we're moving forward." She expected a snide remark, but Peacock only looked at her, small and frightened, his blue hair hanging in snaggles.

"It looked like..." he whispered, trembling.

"What?" Bells leaned closer.

"It looked like a vampire."

Her eyes widened. "What looked like a vampire?"

"That ghost, the one that got in my face."

"So what? It was probably a ghost of a vampire. What difference does it make?"

"Aren't you scared of them?"

"Who? Vampires?" Bells sat back. "Not any more than I'm scared of any other freaks. Why?"

Peacock wrapped his knees and stared at the ground.

They patiently waited for him to crack.

"It's the book," he said finally, "the book I didn't finish reading. It's Dracula."

Faint voices around them picked up the name. "Dracula...he said Dracula...did you hear...he didn't finish reading Dracula...he will be mighty mad..."

The ghosts were back.

Peacock jerked his head, mortified.

"Hey, I know that book," exclaimed Rusty. "It's about vampires, right? Man, vampires are cool! I mean, they're scary, but—"

"Can you let him finish?" hissed Bells.

Rusty sniggered embarrassingly.

"It's a bad idea...to mention books...you haven't finished reading...badlings," said a ghost with a beard.

"I don't think...they will listen to you...Bluebeard," observed a ghost in a nightgown.

"Bluebeard?" Bells squinted.

Peacock looked in horror at a misty arm that playfully tickled Rusty. It belonged to Eleonore, one of Bluebeard's dead wives, looking uglier as a ghost than when she was simply dead. She giggled, her hands creeping up his neck.

"Bells?" called Peacock.

She turned to look.

Eleonore squeezed her fingers, and Rusty gasped for air. "Nice ghost. That's enough playing," he said. And then, in a sudden panic, "You're choking me! Get off me!"

They rushed to his aid, but when they tried prying Eleonore's fingers, their hands came away with strands of goo.

"Let go of him, you dead pudding!" shouted Bells.

"Dead...pudding?" The shock of the insult made Eleonore slacken her hold. Rusty took a shuddering breath, color returning to his cheeks.

"Run!" screamed Bells.

Unfortunately, running in a tunnel wasn't possible. Instead, shrieking their heads off, the children scurried off without any sense of direction, only wanting to get away from the ghosts and the murk and the chill.

Bells turned into the first passage on the right and stopped, her ears assaulted by a cacophony of explosions.

"Get back!" she cried, trying to push past Rusty.

Rusty was enthralled and wouldn't move. "Whoa!" The end of the burrow seemed to open into the sky. He crawled to the edge and looked out.

About thirty feet below lay a field. A garrison of horsemen in navy coats and beaver hats, sabers aloft, galloped through fire and smoke toward an army of men in kaftans, most of whom walked, yet some rode elephants decked out in brocades with colorful tassels.

"I know this book. It's Baron Munchausen! There he is!" shouted Rusty.

"Are you out of your mind?" Bells tugged on his arm. "Get back before you get shot!"

"You can't go out there, Rusty," said Grand wisely. "They will kill you."

"But it's Baron Munchausen!" Rusty pointed at a man in a red topcoat and a triangular hat, his face one curly mustache. "Right there, see? That's him. Watch what he's going to do. He's going to attack the sultan!" The baron charged at the most decorated man who rode the biggest elephant, knocked him down, dismounted and rained lashes left and right.

Rusty's enthusiasm infected Bells and Grand, and even Peacock sidled up to them, looking over their shoulders. They watched the sultan fire at the baron from a pistol, to which the baron responded by slicing off the sultan's head.

Bells gasped.

Peacock and Grand gaped.

And Rusty said in awe, "Did you see that? He just lopped it off, just like that!"

The baron cleaned his saber, stashed it away, caught a shooting cannonball with bare hands, mounted it, and flew off.

"Holy buckets. That's impossible!" said Peacock.

"I know, right?" rattled Rusty excitedly. "It's crazy! But listen to this. He also pulled himself out of a swamp by his own hair, and he shot a deer with cherry pits so a cherry tree grew from its head the next morning, and—" Rusty gasped for air, "—he shot ducks in the air so when they fell down they were already roasted! And he turned a wolf inside out!"

"I don't know why you'd turn a wolf inside out," said Grand, shuddering at the memory of the wolf howling in The Headless Horseman, "but roasted ducks sound good. Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind a roasted wolf either." He patted his stomach sadly.

"Come on, guys," said Bells. "Let's find a quieter story. Looks like all these tunnels open into different pages. Maybe we'll find one where there's some food."

This was met with a unanimous agreement.

And so they crept through the maze of holes for another hour, halting to rest, when at one of the stops they glimpsed a turnout into what looked like a bedroom with a bed, a desk, and a window looking over a peaceful night. Uplifted by this discovery, they scrambled toward it, oblivious to a small dark shape spying on them from the shadows.