On Emerald Street, leaves swirled like petals of orange confetti. Fog drifted low to the ground, glistening like silver ribbon, and every few steps it was lit up by pumpkin lanterns with smiles cut as crooked as if they were laughing at pranks. It was Halloween - the one night of the year when even the quietest creaking wicket sounded like the beginning of a story. Lena was ten years old, her black hair tied in a high ponytail and a cape whose hood ended in soft bat ears. Olek, a year older, proudly wore his homemade ghost costume: a sheet that Mrs Kasia from the fourth floor had helped him cut straight, and trainers with neon laces that could not keep quiet about anything. Next to them trotted Fistash - a mongrel with ears like butterfly wings and a band with a reflective bone. - One more turn and we have the last house. Then we go back and sort,' Lena decided in the tone of an expedition leader, tossing a pumpkin lantern with her hand. - Chocolates into one bowl, jelly beans into another, and cukes.... well, we'll see. - Oh. And no swapping for sultanas," stipulated Olek, who considered sultanas to be the biggest misunderstanding of all time. Around the bend, the strangest part of the street began - the one where an old willow tree nibbled at the sky with its branches. Bent like arms, they whispered about something no one wanted to hear after dark. There stood the House under the Willow: a sprawling, low villa with a turret on which a window used to glow on 31 October, even if the rest of the windows were dead dark. Adults said it was an illusion, that it was a street lamp reflected in the windows. Children preferred to believe the other versions - the ones with the rubber shiver. - See? - whispered Lena. - It's lit up again. Indeed, there was a soft, bluish glow lurking in the turret window, as if someone had placed a lantern there for secret reading. On the gate, next to a rusty padlock, hung a crookedly tied string of white tissue paper flags. And something else: stuck on the hook from the gate was an envelope of paper that looked like it was made from dried maple leaves. It was sealed with a pumpkin-shaped seal. - 'It's probably some kind of decoration,' Olek muttered, but his voice was not as sure as the sound of the words. Lena was already reaching out. She tore off the seal with a finger soiled in artificial blood (gelly, raspberry, safe) and took out a piece of paper. On thin paper, covered with tiny dots from the rain, someone had drawn a map of Emerald Street. A pencil arrow led through the gate, around the trunk of an old willow tree, up to the porch. A windswept inscription circled underneath: "He who counts is not afraid and has courage in his heart, Let him knock three times when the moon plays in the grass. When the clues come together - you will find what you need. But if you stray, the willow will sigh to the sky." - That ... sounds like an invitation," Lena said. A spark flashed in her eyes, what her mother called "a flash of an idea". - 'It sounds like something my mum would tell me to put down and go home,' replied Olek. Fisty sneezed, as if to sum up: "That wasn't in the plan." Then a longer gust blew through the branches. The flags rustled, the wicket emitted a prolonged "iiiiik" - and gave way under Lena's light push. A cool breeze with the smell of wet wood and apples blew in from inside the garden. It was as if someone had recently baked an apple pie and opened the window. - 'We'll just have a look,' decided Lena and, before Olek had time to explain that 'we'll have a look' usually turns into 'we'll get in over our heads', she slipped through the wicket. The stone path shimmered with discarded leaves that glowed in the moonlight like ambers. The willow hummed quietly, like an old woman telling a story without words. Fistashek placed his paws carefully, listening again and again. When they reached the porch, they noticed that there was a pumpkin lantern with a clock pattern cut out on the threshold. The hands, made of sticks, showed seven and thirteen. - Seven thirteen? - Olek frowned. - After all, there is no such hour. - Maybe it's a code - Lena leaned over the pumpkin with sparkling eyes. - The seventh letter of the alphabet and.... thirteenth... G and M? Or... - she broke off as something on the other side of the door squeaked. - 'It's the wind,' whispered Olek. 'It's definitely the wind,' he repeated in his mind three times faster than he could say aloud. - 'Or someone who knows we're coming,' Lena replied and knocked three times, exactly as the rhyme sounded. The rumbling was louder than they had expected. After a moment, it was answered by an echo, and then - a low, almost imperceptible clatter, like footsteps counting under the carpet. The door moved noiselessly away, as if learning to float in the air, and stood a hand's width apart. A light winked from inside the house. - Hello? - Lena called out, peering inside. - Is anyone there? Isn't that a prank? There was a smell of dust in the corridor, but a homely one, with a hint of cinnamon. On the walls hung portraits in oval frames - not scary, not threatening, rather pensive, as if the portrayed were asking for silence in the library. Between them stretched garlands of tissue paper with little bats. On the commode stood jars with lit candles, and on one lay a pile of freshly sharpened chalk in various colours. - 'Someone prepared this,' whispered Olek. - It looks ... nice. - And yet it's a bit like the house is eating us up a tad - muttered Lena, but she slipped inside first. After two seconds of hesitation, Fistash followed her, leaving a trail of muddy paws on the threshold. The door closed of its own accord. No slam, no draught. Just a "snap" - and a soft silence fell. Somewhere close by, and at the same time as if from the upper floor, a ticking sounded. One slow, the other fast, the third so even that it could have been a metronome for a piano lesson. There must have been a lot of clocks here - each spoke in its own rhythm. On the table near the entrance lay another piece of paper. Lena read it in a half-hearted voice: "First task: Find six ghostly lights that shine like heather, Set the time on the clock and walk on in joy. Don't stray by the stairs, where the shadow is longer, For the willow tree will blow and extinguish your various brave thoughts." - Rhyming is not the author's strong point," whispered Olek. - But "six lights" sounds easy. Doesn't it? In the concha of the corridor, just above the umbrella basket, something blue twinkled. A tiny teardrop of light, like a skylight made of sugar. After a moment, a second light emerged from under the stairs, a third peeked from behind a portrait of a gentleman with a moustache. They floated lazily, as if someone had let six balloons out of their hand and forgotten that they should go up. Lena carefully extended her hand to the nearest one. Warm. Lighter than a feather. It clung to her sleeve, leaving a sparkling mark on the material. Fisty first growled, then embarrassedly kissed the light with her nose as it smelled like summer sealed in a jar. - 'If we collect six, maybe they can show us which clock to set,' Lena guessed, glancing at the pumpkin timer by the door. Its stick-like hands now trembled as if they were about to jump any second. - Or they will set it by themselves - Olek guessed, and in order not to be disturbed by the thought of being in the old villa after dark, he started counting the lights: - One... two... three... Suddenly the ticking stopped. All the clocks stopped talking at once. The silence fell heavy, like the cloak of a drenched cloak. Fistash strained, his tail immediately set to attention. A low, long creak came from above them, like a hand dragging on a railing. Then a single thud - somewhere on the stairs. One, two, three. Lena raised her eyes, Olek swallowed his saliva, which suddenly became too loud. The oldest clock, standing in the shadows under the turret, began to strike. One strike. A second. A third. At the fourth, an obscure light flashed - one of the glowing jars went out, as if someone had walked past. At the fifth, at the top of the stairs, two narrow streaks of amber glow lit up in the darkness, like buttons on darkness. The handrail twitched. - Hello? - dared Olek, though his voice came out lower than usual. A soft, almost affectionate whisper rang out in response, drifting down the stairs like a feather: - Will you come in? He rasped up the first step.