Whaddya know, someone wrote fan fiction. This
one’s a doozy: John Bellairs and Dr. Who.
Lewis continued to hover at the edge of the clearing, by his and Rose Rita's bicycles. Rose Rita had gone into the shack what seemed like a very long time ago. She had barged straight ahead, as she always did. Lewis had intended to follow, had even taken a few steps forward, but found himself delaying each step longer than the one before. Finally, he had stopped entirely and begun to retreat to the relative safety of the bicycles.
"Hallo!" The voice came from behind Lewis. He jumped, silently scolding himself as he did so. He turned, and saw a funny little man in an oversized black coat approaching. He almost looked like that silent film comedian Lewis had seen at the Bijou film festival with his uncle. He smiled at Lewis.
"H-Hello," Lewis ventured. He found himself at a loss for words.
The little man continued to smile gamely. "I'm the Doctor, by the way. And these are -- well, it's just me, I suppose. And what's your name?"
Lewis introduced himself. The Doctor seemed very taken with his name and pumped Lewis' hand up and down enthusiastically. "I say, Lewis, this seems a rather lonely spot for a young chap like yourself. What brings you out here?"
He had to suppress a smile. He hadn't heard anything like the Doctor's accent, outside Sherlock Holmes films. "Me and my friend came out to look at the Windrow house. She went in, and I, uh, stayed out here." Lewis dug his toe into the dirt.
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