In the meantime, at 13 Crocks Pot Road, undulating banks of fog rose as diligently as they did every evening. A long, dark hand stretched silently over the anonymous Bromley residence, erasing every trace of the day. Dim shadows penetrated the rooms like dripping streams of hot liquid wax. They moved lethargically over walls, furniture, and floors, generously filling every cranny and preparing the way for a new, rough night.

Only the living room, lit by the flashy French abat-jours Eleanor had bought for a few pennies at Convent Garden's open market, managed to escape the unstoppable voracity of the enveloping darkness, which had to wait patiently for an opportunity to enter. There, in the warm, soft light of those second-hand lamps, Peter, Michael and Kate waited for the return of their parents. They sat next to the mysterious oil lamp which had appeared on the semi-Persian rug, and tried to avoid falling into Sleep's clutches.

"Where do you think they went?" wondered Peter, moving close to the window to look into the street. "Don't you think it's strange they left without telling us anything?"

"I wouldn't worry so much if I were you..." reassured Michael, who was lying on the carpet, enjoying a chocolate-raisin snack bar. "Maybe the police drove them back to the station to give them a medal of honor," he said, stretching back and crossing his arms under his head.

"But the car is still here," said Peter.

"Then they walked!" exclaimed Michael, moving his tongue between his molars to dislodge a piece of raisin. "Listen. There's no point in waiting. I say we go to bed. Who's with me?"

"I can't sleep unless dad tucks me in and reads me a story," protested Kate, covering her rag doll with a kitchen-towel-turned-blanket. "Well! Tonight, you can do without," snapped Michael.

"But I'm afraid to sleep without mom and dad!" whined the little girl. "Afraid of what?" asked her brother, frustrated.

The girl shrugged her shoulders and hugged Clementine tightly.

"I get it..." said Michael, suddenly serious. "You're afraid of the terrible Ghost of Winchmoore, right? The one who wakes around midnight and goes around London to slit ragdolls' throats." He started to howl and wave his hands, jumping from chair to chair.

"AAAHHH!" cried the girl, frightened, hiding under the table. "The ghost wants to behead my Clementine!"

"Michael!" exclaimed Peter, packing all his disappointment in that name. "Can you stop tormenting Kate and acting like a mad orangutan?"

"Pfff!" puffed the boy, offended. "I just gave her what she wanted. Didn't she say she can't sleep without a story?"

"Let's turn on the lamp!" proposed Kate, suddenly in a good mood.

"I've tried. It doesn't work!" replied Peter, disappointed, keeping his eyes on the street.

"I think it's broken!" said Michael.

"Or maybe, to make it work we need to ask politely," the girl suggested.

"Are you sure you are from this planet?" asked Michael, dismayed by his sister's antics. "Have you ever heard of lamps that turn on by the sound of good manners?"

"There should be a way to turn it on!" continued Peter. "If only someone could solve this puzzle!"

"Hold your horses!" cried Kate, a new light on her face. "I know who can help us solve this mystery!"

"You do?" asked Peter, surprised.

"Yes! Yes!" repeated the girl, lifting the lamp without the least effort.

Her brothers stared at her, dumbfounded. "Really? Who?"

* * * * * * *

Dr. Odilda Costalbine parked her Citroën DS abruptly in the area reserved for taxis at Victoria Station, drawing curious glances – not so much because the car was stopped next to a fire hydrant in an area where regular cars were strictly forbidden to park. The oddity was the pile of strange devices hooked to the roof and hood of the amaranth-colored car: periscopes with infra-red systems, movement detectors, gas extractors, funneling devices for liquids, stroboscopic lights, plasma lamps, water tanks, trumpets, whistles, bells, and whatnot.

It looked like a vehicle created for an important government mission, such as an exploration of the bowels of the earth, a collection of specimens on one of Jupiter's moons, or the discovery of fossils at the North Pole.

Regardless of the initial purpose, one thing was sure: one doesn't see that type of car around London.

Odilda pressed the button for the temporary cooling of the engines and, still behind the windshield, started to wave at the crowd who was surrounding the station wagon.

"Wilfrid! I think the driver is trying to say something," said a lady to her suitcase-laden husband. "I think she wants something to eat."

"I don't think so," disagreed the exhausted husband. "I think she want something to drink!"

Odilda started to jump up and down on the seat, waving even harder.

"She wants a blanket!" said another bystander.

"And a sunny vacation!" another seemed to understand.

By then, Odilda was worn-out. She looked at the crowd with a despondent glance, then got out of the car. She was so short that for a while they couldn't see her.

"Do you need subtitles to understand that... YOU MUST MOVE BACK?" she shouted, with the unmistakable voice of a cigar smoker. "Go on!" she yelled again, pushing the ones in the first row. "I mean... go back!" she corrected. "Just get away, I said!"

The passersby continued to stare in astonishment at the wild lady. The reason was obvious. Dr. Costalbine was wearing an eccentric safari suit with a British colonial hat, sand-colored galoshes, a scorpion tail pinned to her jacket, a binocular strapped across her chest, a belt made of real snake skin, and several ropes and knives hanging like salamis around her waist.

"In perfect time!" She congratulated herself, glancing at the large broken clock in the station.

"Hey, beautiful!" shouted someone in the crowd. "Where did you leave your camel? What happened? Did your Bedouin ride away?"

"Hilarious!" she commented, without getting too upset. With her whisk under her arm, she walked toward the station's coffee shop where she had a mysterious appointment.

That evening, she had received an unusual call. Obviously, it was not strange. She received plenty of "unusual" visits, calls, and letters, practically at every hour of the day. In fact, she virtually drowned in unusual requests. After all, she was Odilda Costalbine, famous researcher of the occult, great investigator of the paranormal, infallible interceptor of mysteries – the only true psychic of the afterlife.

It was her duty to analyze with seriousness and impartiality every report she received on the extra-sensorial world, as absurd and unreliable it might seem and as boring and untimely it might be. She wasn't complaining. She was used to it.

Just the week before, a man stopped her on the street saying he was already dead and begging her to fill out his tax forms. She had also found in her mailbox an advertisement from a family in Whales who was certain they could contact any departed spirit. According to the flyer, by paying a modest fee which started at two pounds, anyone could receive advice from a great deceased celebrity. Among the most popular spirits were Napoleon Bonaparte, followed closely by Leonardo da Vinci, Christopher Columbus, and Santa Claus. The last one, by the way, was still alive and well – but this was a negligible detail.

She knew from experience these people's tales were rarely based on truth. In the course of her long career, she had never met anyone who was truly able to communicate with the dead. Most of the time, the accounts were the result of too much beer, a wild imagination, or a desire for fame. Some people were willing to do anything to see their name published in the national paper - even in a short article.

That evening's phone call, however, was different. She could feel it in her bones. A young voice on the other end of the phone mentioned a strange talking pendulum clock had fallen from a chimney and an equally mysterious oil lamp had appeared out of nowhere.

"A clock and a lamp, you say?" said the woman, increasingly interested.

The caller believed those objects were connected to the strange events which had just happened in London. This firm conviction had moved the professor, that very night, to accept the invitation of her mysterious informer to meet her in a coffee shop at the station.

"The Flying Vessel!" said Odilda, reading the golden letters of the sign and entering the door, which was mounted by a winged figurehead.

She looked carefully around. In the furthest and darkest corner of the room a group of children were waiting, sipping their milk shakes through a straw. She was not surprised. In her line of work, she had learned to never judge by appearance and never take anything for granted.

A good researcher of the occult must never take the liberty of discriminating or underestimating a source of information. Never!

"You... must be Kate!" said the professor, raising an eyebrow and extending her gloved hand. "I imagined you taller and younger. And you must be Michael..." This time, she gave him the tip of her whip instead of her hand. "I imagined you shorter and skinnier. And you..." she concluded, "you must be Peter! I didn't imagine you at all!" she said, hitting him on the head with the whisk.

"Dr. Costalbine..." the children started to say, excitedly.

"Where are your parents?" asked the professor, stopping them abruptly.

Kate looked at her innocently and shrugged her shoulders.

"Do they know you're here?"

"U-uh," the child said, indicating that no one knew about her idea.

"Actually..." Peter intervened. "We don't know where they went. We haven't heard from them in hours."

"Um..." the woman groaned, doubtingly. "Very well, we'll go back to that later. Now," she said, hitting the table with the whisk, "if you want me to take care of your case, you must accept some simple conditions. Number one: the consultation is not free. First you pay, then you receive. Number two: I don't accept promissory notes. Number three: I don't accept any case without discussing the final compensation. Number four: room, board, and travel are the client's responsibilities. Number five: the investigator reserves the right to abandon the case at any moment if she smells a rat. Is everything clear?"

The children watched her admiringly and nodded with certainty. This was followed by a long, embarrassing silence, finally broken by Costalbine.

"Um... this would be when you pay the deposit," she said, stealing a chair from a nearby table.

"Of course! Please forgive us..." said Peter, mortified. "We're not used to working with a celebrity." He turned out his pockets, looking for coins.

"I have something too!" said Michael, checking his socks under the table.

"And I brought Pablo, my piggy bank," said the girl, happy to contribute.

"Yippie!" exulted the professor, sarcastic. "This evening I'll go home rich." She waved her hat under her chin as if fanning a hot flash. Dispirited, she called the waiter to place her order.

"All for you!" said Peter, moving a pile of coins to the middle of the table.

Odilda sipped eagerly the double whisky she had ordered. Then, careful not to touch the money from Michael's socks, left it all as a tip for the waiter.

"Maybe it's better to go to point three," she said, after ordering another shot. "Let's make it simple. For anything we find, 25% of its value goes to me. For any reward we collect, 25% of its value goes to me. For every inheritance we receive, 25% of its value goes to... to whom?" she asked.

"To you!" replied the children in unison.

"Any objection?" She waited for a moment. Since no one was protesting, she kept talking. "Very well... now we can get to the point," she said, stacking her umpteenth glass on those she had already emptied and placed upside down on the table. "Go ahead! Spill the beans."

"Here!" Peter pulled the oil lamp out of his backpack and showed her to Costalbine. "This is the lamp we mentioned."

Odilda widened her eyes as if she had just seen the queen's jewels. She pulled closer to the table to get a better look. After sniffing the object and biting on its spout, she carefully studied the symbols with a magnifying glass and pressed her stethoscope to its body.

"Ah-ha!" she exclaimed, moving her instrument left and right. "What?" asked Peter, brimming with excitement.

"Very interesting!" commented the woman, without giving explanations.

"What? What?" asked Michael, anxious.

"Just as I suspected!" She straightened herself on the chair, euphoric, the stethoscope's ear-tips still in her ears.

"What is it?" asked Kate, finally. "Have you discovered something new?"

Quietly, the professor placed the ear-tips in the girl's ears and motioned her to place the stethoscope's bell on the lamp.

"Unbelievable!" exclaimed the child, astounded. "There's something inside!"

"Right! And a giraffe lives in our washing machine," said Michael, seizing the stethoscope and placing the tips in his ears. "B-b- but..." He was speechless. "It's impossible!"

"Let me hear!" Peter grabbed one of the tips and listened. "Amazing!" he exclaimed, still disbelieving. "I heard kitchen sounds, and someone singing... how can it be?"

"It's obvious!" said Michael, boasting as usual. "This is not a lamp. It's an old radio!"

"You're wrong, my boy," said the professor, energized. "This is really a lamp... one of the rarest in the world!" She took another swig of whisky. "It's a lamp of Harazad."

"How can you be so sure?" Michael replied, skeptical.

"I know because my name is Odilda Costalbine and not Odilda Talltale. That's why!" she retorted, slamming the empty glass on the table.

"What do you mean by special?" asked Peter, increasingly curious.

"I'll show you!" The professor looked around casually. The only person around was the waiter, who was completely occupied by his task of clearing some far away tables. She started to rub the lamp vigorously.

"Hey, look! It's changing color!" exclaimed Kate, astonished. "It's transforming!" yelled Peter.

"Here we go!" declared the professor, still rubbing the opaque brass surface.

All of a sudden, the lamp became golden and shiny. From the long beak came a large greenish cloud of smoke, immediately followed by a flabbergasted gnome.

"Good gracious! To be honest, I didn't see that coming... Where am I now? This is certainly not my happy abode!"

The gnome was shorter than seven cans of beans stacked one on top of the other. He wore a large pirate hat, a pair of knickerbockers and a puffy shirt, and held in his hands a fork and a cup of tea.

A large nose, as big as a potato and as red as coral, covered three quarters of the face. His ears, long and wrinkled, drooped like a turkey's crop. His hands were stocky, his legs short, and his teeth sparse and rotten. His hair was grey and prickly like wild boar's bristle.

His beard and mustache were disheveled, his socks faded and full of holes, his wooden clogs filthy and worn out. Around his waist, suspended from his belt like clothes hanging out to dry, he had tools, bells and bulging sacks which jingled with every move he made. In other words, he was not the picture of beauty and elegance.

"The gnome of the lamp!" whispered Odilda, dreamy. "I knew I'd hit the mark sooner or later!"

"A gnome in the lamp?!" exclaimed the Moffet children, flabbergasted.

"I pray you forgive my improper attire," said the gnome, with a skip and a bow and a mortified look on his face. "In truth, I was not expecting such a visit. Now that the initial embarrassment and astonishment have been curbed, may I offer your lovely company an infusion of viburnum? Philodendruon? Mandrake? Or maybe you prefer some amaryllis and phytolacca? I just happen to have a teapot on the fire." Shaking his fork in the air, he made a cracked teapot and four porcelain cups appear out of nowhere.

"I d-don't know if you noticed but t-t-that guy came out of a l-l- lamp and made some cups and a teapot appear with a twirl of his f-f-f- fork!" stammered Michael. "Did you see? You saw it, right?"

"My name is Kate Madeleine Moffet," the girl introduced herself, not at all scared. "And who are you?"

"Oh! What an unpardonable negligence!" said the gnome, touching his chest. "My fair maiden, I'm Trogol, gnome of the magic lamp and custodian of Dralon!" He then took off his hat, bowing royally.

"It's an honor to meet you, Trogol, gnome of the magic lamp!" said Kate, bowing back.

"Um... and what do you do in life, Mr. Trogol?" asked Michael, suspicious. "I mean, in the lamp..." He paused for a moment to find the right words. "What does someone like you do inside a lamp?"

"What questions are these?" asked the gnome, taken aback. "What do you expect a gnome to do in a lamp? I live there! It seems obvious."

"Yeah! Obvious," said Michael shaking his head, still stunned.

"Mr. Trogol..." started Peter. "You don't know us and we've probably interrupted your supper, but... we really need your help." "Oh! In that case, please tell me about your venture, starting from the beginning, dear lads..." said the gnome kindly, sitting on a wooden stool that had just appeared in mid-air. "I'm all ears!"

Peter was about to start, when Odilda pressed forward.

"Dr. Odilda Costalbine..." she introduced herself, showing her badge as detective of the paranormal. "I'm the Moffet's spiritualist consultant. Maybe it's better if I continue from now on," she said, letting the children know it was time to let a professional speak. "Apparently, a couple of days ago these children received a pendulum clock from a strange character. Since then, London has witnessed a series of unexplainable events. What do you know about it?" she inquired. "Why now? And why are these young people holding your lamp, Mr. Trogol?"

"Oh, no!" groaned the gnome. "No-no-no... This... This is terrible! Terrible! Terrible! It shouldn't be!" He theatrically shook his fork. "Listen well!" he continued in a serious tone, getting close to the children, "You must follow my directions very, very carefully, and quickly, if you want this tale to end in happiness instead of doom!"

"Of course! Of course!" said Peter. "But what can we do?" Trogol stuck his arm in the lamp and started to search.

"Where did it go?" he wondered, inserting his head as well. "The search is arduous in such a bedlam... ah, I found it!" He reappeared with a shiny rubber stamp and a sheet of paper. "You must go to the Contrary World to visit the wizard Egot Dubbets. He'll know how to help you." He then handed to Peter the stamped document and the sacks which were hanging from his belt.

"Temporary Magic Authorization to Enter the Contrary World. Valid for four common mortals," Peter read out loud.

"Beware! Do not lose this document for any reason. Present it to the guardian at the foot of the Mountain of the 1001 Doors. He will reveal to you the direct entrance to the city. Perhaps, this will prevent the ancient foe from awakening and from seizing the precious treasure."

Just then, a group of noisy clients entered the coffee shop. "Now go, quickly! We don't have much time," the small man exhorted them, twirling the fork counterclockwise and making the chair, the cups and the teapot disappear. "It's not wise to remain in a place as this. My departure is expedient!"

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Peter, panicking. "You're not coming with us? You want us to go to Dralon alone?"

"I'm a gnome. I give information and authorizations..." said the small man, sincerely sorry. "I can't fight with spells and potions!"

"Well! I couldn't give a hoot!" exclaimed Michael. "Now, be a good gnome of the lamp and try to make yourself useful. I don't know if you noticed, but we have a small problem to solve here. Ok?"

"Dear lads, believe me, I'd love to do more, but, alas, I really need to say goodbye..." said the gnome, displeased. "Please forgive my quick departure. It's time for me to go back home."

"No. Wait, Mr. Trogol!" yelled Peter, trying to grab the man's shirt. "Don't go!"

"You know what to do. Don't postpone it any longer..." said the gnome, disappearing in a cloud of smoke. "Soon, tomorrow will be today, and today yesterday. Look for the entrance into Dralon. Ask... the Lady of the Trails!"

"Trogol! Come back here at once!" yelled again Michael.

"Follow the advice of a good hand..." said the voice, now faraway. "Give it light. This is what the old gnome has to say!" The last bit of smoke was swallowed up by the spout and the lamp became brass again.

"Very well!" exclaimed Dr. Costalbine, high-spirited. "A very productive day, I'd say!"

"Productive? But we haven't discovered anything!" said Peter, discouraged. "Trogol's information doesn't make any sense!"

"You must be joking!" exclaimed the woman, shocked. "We know much more than you think, my boy!" she continued, paying the bill. She then walked with the children toward the car.

"Where do you want to go?" asked Kate, surprised.

"You heard it, no? We must ask the Lady of the Trails for directions." She turned on the engine of her camouflaged Citroën. "What are you doing? Are you coming or not?"

Without the slightest hesitation, the children jumped in the amaranth station wagon and left with Dr. Costalbine in search for the mysterious Lady of the Trails – the only person who could show common mortals the entrance to the magical world of Dralon.