Henry bolted, out of the hallway and away from the gaping faces of Lizzy and Anne. He was shaking and panting by the time he had reached the very smallest sitting room and sat on the footstool there, his eyes darting around wildly and his ears perked for any sign of Ms. Caldwell's return. After a while all he could hear was Anne, who was trying to calm down Lizzy who was surely a shaking mess after so much screaming.

Soon, however, his fear left him, and his thoughts went back to Anne—it was all her fault after all! His stomach churned at the very thought of her and her ridiculous adventures. Her pity was forgotten as he jumped to his feet. Henry was angry—angrier then he had ever been. That Anne girl was the problem—he was sure of it. Always coming about when she wasn't wanted, always spoiling everything. As he was storming away, he began to cry furious tears—which of course only made him angrier. He hated tears—especially his own. He wiped at them as he neared the most neglected staircase in the house and kept going, up, up, up, until he couldn't even hear her anymore. That awful girl with her ludicrous stories and her stupid games—he would show her!

Now if there was anything Henry Caldwell was proud of, it was his ability to sneak. He had jumped out to frighten Lizzy more times than he could count and he had decided that what that Anne girl needed more than anything was a good scare. So up to the attic he went, creaking up the stairs, defying the darkness with a haughty smirk—he would not be afraid of the attic. There was far too much work to be done for any of that nonsense. He got to the top and hastily flicked on the lamp—no need for him to bumble around in the darkness, after all. Although he certainly wasn't afraid of the dark—of course not.

As he looked around the dimly lit room he realized, with a shock, that he had never been up quite this high before. After all, he lived in a very large house—there simply wasn't time to look through all of it. But at this moment, Henry wished that he had. Something about this attic was not at all to his taste—it was dusty and simply reeked of disuse. No, he much preferred to be among his clean, new toys that waited for him in the nursery. But, he swallowed painfully, he was already here, so he might as well have a look about.

She was just a girl, he thought to himself, girls scare faster than rabbits. And as he looked around he spotted just the thing to spook the freckles off of her. It was a ghostly sheet—very tall and very old and very white—standing out in the attic amongst the grey and the yellow, seemingly untouched by the hands of time and decay. It stood, in the very darkest corner of the room. (Which of course, wasn't a problem—it wasn't as if he was frightened. It was just such a long way to walk—and who knew how long it would be until they found him?) But Henry, ever a sensible boy, knew that there was simply nothing for it. He had to walk it.

As he walked farther and farther from the light, he began to shiver and looked around nervously. Where were those stupid girls anyway? Anne hardly every stuck to the nursery, surely at this point she would be roving all over the house—she always had a tendency of showing up when he least wanted to see her. He quickened his pace and was nearly running by the time he reached the sheet—so fast, in fact, that at the very last moment, his foot caught on an old tablecloth and he was thrown forward. He flailed helplessly as he tripped and then, at the last moment he caught onto the sheet, pulling it violently from whatever it was draped over, and collapsing into a pile on the ground. He had barely lifted his head when suddenly he felt it hit—smack! Right into his nose—the object the sheet had been resting on was spinning and had caught him square in the face. And Henry fell backwards with a soft whoosh into the phantom sheet, as the attic faded away to darkness.

When he finally came to, Henry put his hand to his nose "Ouch!" Even the slightest touch and it smarted. Henry felt perfectly terrible—he was all alone, very hurt and he was sure that no one would ever care to find him. He hated everything—the girl, the sheet, the attic, and whatever had just hit him. He sat up, head still spinning from such a powerful blow, to face his offender.

"Oh!" Henry flinched violently, upsetting the dust on the sheet. He had looked up to see a little boy staring back at him—Henry Caldwell himself. But covered in such a ghostly old sheet, he had thought, at first, he had seen a specter. "Oh phoo—stupid old mirror," he muttered. The mirror was huge—lifted off of the ground on a golden stand that had two clawed feet and such ornate designs, Henry couldn't make out all of them in the dim lighting. But there were mountains, yes, and an awful lot of trees. And when he looked quite closely, he could look out little figures running about—as if they were dancing with the trees—no, in the trees, of course... What a queer sort of mirror, Henry thought to himself. And as he backed up to look at the enormous thing, his stomach turned cold and his jaw locked tight.

Staring out of the mirror, right beside his own petrified image, was an enormous golden lion. Fierce and powerful—the beast seemed to take up the whole room—filling every corner with his mane and his tail and his claws. Henry couldn't even manage a whimper. Oh no, he thought hopelessly, he's just going to gobble me up as a snack and no one will ever even know about it. And he stood, stock still, for what seemed like years, with the lion blinking lazily, until finally the beast closed its eyes, and went to sleep. To sleep? Henry couldn't believe his luck. Quickly, he glanced behind him, searching for the fastest escape. But wait—Henry wrinkled his nose in confusion (painfully so) there was no lion in sight—just the same gray attic he had walked into. He spun back to the mirror, and there it was, plain as day—a huge ferocious lion sleeping right there next to him.

Now Henry Caldwell, as I'm sure you've noticed, is not one for nonsense—there either was a lion or there wasn't—there were no two ways about it. And yet, as he glanced from mirror to attic to mirror—the lion would appear and disappear as if by magic. Looking back at the lion, Henry saw the beast's lip twitch in his sleep. With a jump, he realized, that nonsense or not, there was a lion in his attic and he did what any sensible boy would do—he turned and bolted out of that attic as fast as his legs could carry him.

He nearly fell twice as he stumbled down the attic stairs, desperate for the comfort of his nursery. And the whole while, slipping and sliding down the twisting staircase, as he ran all he could think was "surely not. How could it be?" Of course, he was mad, he was dreaming—surely not. Surely not.

And by the end of the staircase he had quite soundly reassured himself that the whole thing had just been brought on by that blow to the head—a bit of wild thinking that's all it was. And as he walked back into the nursery he did not even acknowledge Anne who, despite herself, couldn't help but smirk at his red nose and dust-covered shirt. Just then, Ms. Mooney strode into the room, tall and grim as ever, but Henry couldn't bring himself to be quite as afraid of her. "Well, well. It seems you've learned your lesson after all. Not so fun playing all by yourself, is it Mister Caldwell?"

Henry blinked twice and shook himself a bit, "No, Ms. Mooney," he said quietly.

"Well I'm glad to hear you have decided to speak at a more respectable volume. You'll not be screaming like that again, will you Mister Caldwell?"

Henry shook his head, still feeling a little lightheaded. "No, Ms. Mooney"

"Well good. I'll be in the sitting room, but if you step out of line one more time, you'll be very sorry indeed!" And with that, she turned from Henry and left the nursery, leaving the girls to goggle at Henry in silence. Never had Anne or Lizzy heard him sound so complacent.

But Henry hardly noticed their stares as we walked to the far corner of the nursery to set up his trains. All the while he sat there, he would occasionally shake his head, trying to clear his head of nonsense. Because Henry Caldwell was a sensible boy—a sensible boy who did not have a lion in his attic. Of course. Because it simply couldn't be real—it couldn't be…surely not.