Don't think that the longer the book, the more gripping its story. Some very short tales have penetrated the minds of generations and remained there, unwilling to leave. People like to call them "classics," although there is nothing classic in them, but plenty of blood, murders, and treachery.

The children were presently rushing toward one such tale. Murky fog whooshed past them, or they whooshed past murky fog—it was hard to tell. The lower they hurtled, the chillier it got. Even Grand's typically warm hands lost all feeling. A fine layer of dew formed on his hair. At one point he thought they would fall like this forever, sinking farther and farther into a uniform greyness that clung to them like spider webs.

It was spider webs.

They shot through a tangle of them and landed on stone with a muffled thwack. Shaken and disoriented, none of them moved.

A minute passed.

Grand patted the uneven floor, groaned, and rolled to his side. He was sitting in a dark room. Weak light trickled in from a barred window high up by the ceiling. The air was dank and drafty, and it smelled foul. He stood up, took a step, and froze. His worst nightmares had materialized right by his feet, splayed along the wall in a neat, gruesome row.

Grand stopped breathing. A single drop of cold sweat rolled down his nose and hung at the very tip. He willed himself to wipe it off and couldn't.

"Grand?" called Bells from the darkness.

"Um." The sound of his own voice startled him so much, he nearly jumped.

"Oh, good, you're here. Peacock?"

Peacock coughed. "I'm okay."

"Just making sure," said Bells. "It's so dark in here, I can't see a thing. Where are we, do you know?"

Grand swayed.

"Are you okay?" she asked, groping for him. "Your hands are cold!"

Grand opened and closed his mouth. No sound came out.

"I don't remember your hands ever being cold. What's wrong?" Bells glanced around until her eyes fell down and she stifled a shriek.

"What is it?" Peacock wiggled in between them. "Why are you guys shaking..."

Grand had forgotten about his friends. Nothing existed for him except the horrible dreams he had every time after visiting his mother at the funeral home. They were always the same: he entered the mortuary fridge, and someone turned off the lights and slammed the door shut, locking him in. For the rest of the dream, he blundered around the room, walking into dead people's clammy arms until he panicked and woke up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a hammer.

"Grand." Bells tugged on him. "Grand!"

He remained motionless, rooted to the spot.

Bells dug her nails into his palm.

He didn't flinch.

"Peacock," she squeaked, "help me!"

Peacock stumbled backward, retching.

"Come on, guys, don't fall apart on me now. We need to...we need..." She held it, held it, and lost it, hanging onto Grand so as not to faint.

Right by their feet, on the cobblestone floor blackened by wear and grime, stood a wooden block with an ax wedged into it. Next to it, carefully arranged along the wall, lay bodies of five dead women, their unseeing eyes open, their hair caked with blood, their stiff feet peeking out from under the hems of white nightgowns.

Grand made a concentrated effort and moved his foot. It touched a puddle of something sticky. His body turned wooden and his leg refused to make another step. Bells clung to his shoulder, and Peacock pressed into a wall, barely breathing.

Hurried footsteps broke them out of paralysis. Someone skipped down the stairs, skittered the length of the hallway, and halted by the other side of the door.

A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and there stood a young woman with a candle in her hand. The flame threw dancing shadows over her organza-veiled face. She entered the room, her dress trailing over the cobbles, saw the children, dropped the key and the candle, and screamed.

This must have had an inspirational effect on Bells, because she let go of Grand's shoulder and joined the screaming.

Their voices bounced off the walls in dull echoes. After a good few seconds of this they stopped and proceeded gawking at each other in pitch-black darkness.

The woman picked up the candle, struck the flint, and lit it again. The scent of melting wax blotted out the stink. She studied the children with a disgusted expression, as if it were they who smelled bad, not the bodies.

"Well?" she inquired. "What book are you from and what are you doing on my page? I don't remember inviting anyone."

"Er," Bells said hesitantly. "We're not from...any book?"

The woman tensed. "Don't lie to me."

Bells flushed at this injustice. "I'm not lying. Grand, tell her."

Grand stared down at the dead women. "It's only a story," he muttered to himself. "A story of Bluebeard. We're in the dungeon where he killed his wives, and these are their bodies. They're not real, so there is nothing to be afraid of." It seemed to him that one of them winked, but when he squinted to see better, she appeared to be as dead as before.

"Only a story," he mumbled.

"Is that what Bluebeard did? Killed his wives?" Bells rolled her eyes. "What kind of a book is this?"

"It's actually a fairy tale," explained Grand.

"This? A fairy tale?" Incredibly, Bells chuckled.

"Well?" prompted the woman. "Explain yourselves. You." She pointed to Peacock. "Why are you not saying anything?"

He coughed into his fist. "Sorry, lady, I'm feeling sick. I think I'm going to puke."

One of the dead wives tucked in her legs, perhaps in an attempt to avoid being puked on, or for some other reason.

Peacock gulped. "Did she just...move?"

"Are you going to answer me or not?" said the woman impatiently. "I don't have all day, you know."

"Look, we have no idea why we're here, okay?" began Peacock. "Ask that Bluebeard guy. He said I was perfect for him or something. He must have liked my blue hair." Peacock nervously ran a hand through it.

"He said that, did he?" the woman smirked. "Without consulting me, of course. I understand now. You must be the new badlings." She looked at them appraisingly.

Someone sniggered on the floor.

"What are you laughing at?" demanded the woman.

"You, Boulotte. I'm laughing at you. You take your role so seriously," said a voice that sent chills along the children's backs.

"Is that...them talking?" asked Peacock, his eyes huge. "They're not really dead, are they?" He began edging toward the door.

"I don't think so," said Grand, following him. "I think they are acting like they're dead. It's good that they aren't. For a moment I thought I was in the morgue at my mom's work—it's where they store the corpses so they won't decompose before the funeral and—"

Bells put a hand on his shoulder. "Do you mind? I'd rather not think about anything decaying just now." She forced a smile. "And sorry for screaming. I hope I wasn't too loud."

"Funny to hear you apologize." Peacock tried to sound sarcastic. "Isn't that what girls do when they're scared?"

Bells stared at him, burning with desire to throttle him right there and then.

While Boulotte was absorbed in a muffled conversation with Bluebeard's dead wives, the children tiptoed through the door into a narrow hallway lit by torches.

"Where do you think you're going?" called Boulotte. She waved the candle, and in its flickering light they saw the wives struggle up.

"Um," ventured Grand. "You know how you're supposed to escape mortal danger in books?"

"Yeah?" said Bells and Peacock as one.

"I think now would be a good time."

None of them moved. All three of them wanted to leave this dreadful place, but a strange curiosity held them hostage, and instead of running they stayed put, staring at the doorway with a mix of horror and amazement.

First a pale foot emerged from the darkness, then the nightgown, and finally a grey face of one of the wives. She held her head together with both hands, since it was cleaved in two by an ax, making her look rather asymmetrical.

Bells made a mewling noise. Grand slammed into a wall. And Peacock flung a hand over his mouth, retching.

The second dead wife stepped out of the dungeon and patted the arm of the first one. "Stop it, Eleonore," she said, brushing hair out of her blood-streaked face. "You're scaring the children."

"They're not children," snorted Eleonore, "they're badlings. I'm claiming that one." She pointed a decomposing finger at Grand.

Boulotte's eyes narrowed, and she hefted the candle higher as if ready to throw it. "I'm claiming the girl. How dare Bluebeard not tell me?"

"He told me," said Eleonore proudly.

Boulotte gasped. "He told you, but not me?"

"Of course he did," teased Eleonore." I was his favorite."

"Liar," hissed another wife. "It was I who was his favorite. I was the first one."

"Little do you know, Rosalinde," smirked the fourth wife. "When we married, he told me how lazy you were. He said you never cooked for him and never ironed his shirts. He even said you never—"

"Shut up, Blanche!"

Their quarrel escalated into shouting, and soon they were grabbing each other's hair and pulling and tearing and snarling.

Bells watched them with a grimace of distaste. "That is precisely why I want to be a scientist and not some wife cooking dinners and mending shirts," she stated.

The wives heard her and stopped fighting.

"What did you say about wives, badling?" asked Boulotte.

"Er, nothing." Bells quickly smiled and glanced at the boys. "Guys? I think we have a bad reputation here."

"I think," said Grand, "it's time to flee."

"Agreed," said Peacock.

"Get them!" shouted Boulotte.

Pursued by five dead wives and one living one, the children bolted into darkness.