Jim Baen, page 21
"Huh . . . By the way, you left every light on downstairs this morning."
He stopped halfway up the stairs. "No, I didn't. I only left the foyer light on."
"Oh. Must've been Scott."
"Wasn't me." Scott's voice floated from the living room on a raft of video game sound effects.
Marilyn gestured "never mind" and headed back into the kitchen. "If I can't find the cookware there'll be no dinner tonight—unless you want to order out."
"Pizza!" yelled Scott.
At the top of the stairs, Harry nearly collided with Kim who'd appeared on the landing cradling a box.
"Cookware?"
Kim nodded. "It was in the upstairs bathroom."
"Again? I brought it downstairs," said Harry.
"Sure, Dad." Kim gave him an indulgent smile, then carried the box downstairs.
Marilyn had come out of the kitchen again. She winked up at Harry. "Poltergeists. They also got Scott's homework." When Harry didn't laugh, she followed him up to their bedroom. "No breakthroughs on the case?"
"No." He sat heavily on the bed, shaking his head. "That gun has got to be in Combs's kitchen. He flat-out didn't have time to hide it anywhere else."
"But they searched the whole house."
"Thoroughly."
"Yeah? How about the turkey carcass left over from Thanksgiving?"
Harry smiled. "Checked it. No gun."
* * *
Harry Ferguson had long been accused of living in his head. At the moment his head contained an exact replica of the floor plan of Ernest Combs' house. As he padded down his own staircase to let the cat out, he recalled how many steps were in Combs's. Returning upstairs, he was disoriented by the sight of a transverse hallway instead of a right angle turn into a loft.
"Daddy?" Megan's voice issued tentatively from the semi-darkness of her room.
He crossed to her door. "You're supposed to be asleep."
She was sitting up in bed, hands in her lap, watching him solemnly. "I need you to talk to him again. He won't obey me."
"Who, honey?"
"The thing in my closet. He keeps going under my bed. He snores."
Harry smiled. "He snores."
She nodded.
"Okay," Harry crossed to the closet and opened the door quickly, as if he expected to surprise something out of hiding.
Meg cleared her throat delicately. "He's under the bed, Daddy."
"Oh, right."
Harry got down on hands and knees and peered beneath the bed. His eyes locked on a darker patch of dark that seemed to be blocking the glow of Meg's nightlight. A frisson ran up his spine before he could chide himself for being over-imaginative. Had to be a stuffed animal. He started to reach under the bed for it and was vaguely ashamed when his hand refused to move.
"You there," he said, making his voice menacingly deep. "You're upsetting my little girl. I must ask you to stop hiding under her bed. Please return to the closet."
He straightened and looked at Meg. "Okay?"
"Thank you, Daddy. You sounded mean. But could you check and make sure he's gone?"
"Oh . . . sure." He peered beneath the bed again. Odd. Now he could see the nightlight through the bed skirt. He straightened. "Gone."
Meg smiled and held out her arms. "Thanks, Daddy. You're great."
He hugged her. "Glad you think so."
He passed the closet on his way out, half of a mind to open the door and peek. He didn't.
* * *
Saturday morning Harry realized he'd dreamed about Combs's house all night. Waking in his flat-ceilinged, perfectly square bedroom was disconcerting.
After breakfast the family dispersed and the house, empty and quiet, seemed to give up a huge sigh. As did Harry. He sat at the kitchen table for a while, savoring his coffee and mulling over the case . . . for all the good it did.
Coffee exhausted, he wandered upstairs and found every light on. He made a complete round, shutting them off—bathroom, Meg's room, Kim's room, Scott's room, the master bedroom. Then he headed back toward the staircase determined to do some gardening.
The bathroom light was on. Again. He remembered turning it off.
He approached the room cautiously, nape hair at attention. The door was ajar, and he swore he saw movement through the slit between door and jamb. He slapped himself mentally. It was probably an electrical problem. Even new houses could have electrical problems.
He stood uncertainly in the doorway. Then, swearing under his breath, he thrust the door open. It impacted the wall with a padded thump.
Harry entered the room fully, turned, and swung the door shut, belatedly considering what he'd do if there were someone there. It closed with a swish and flap of the bathrobes hanging on the back.
Harry chuckled. Alarmist. He let the door swing half-open and turned his attention to the light switch. It was in the "on" position. He flipped it on and off, then wiggled it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow slip past the bathroom door and down the hallway. He lunged at the door and flung it open.
Nothing.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the hall, looking both ways and wondering if stress caused hallucinations. Shaking his head, he turned and nudged open the bathroom door.
A thin, dark, little man with startlingly pale, protuberant eyes blinked up at him. He was wearing black pants and matching long-sleeved turtleneck sweater. He looked like a mime who'd forgotten his makeup.
"Nuts," he said in a high, nasal voice.
An understatement.
"What . . . what are you doing in my house?" Harry asked around the lump in his throat.
"Ex-cuse me. This is really embarrassing."
"What are you doing in my house?" Harry repeated.
"Uh . . . I work here."
"Who are you?"
"I'm the Thing That Hides Behind Doors. Did I scare you?"
"Hell, yes! I thought I was going to turn around and find you sneaking up behind me."
"Oh, not me. That would be the Thing That Sneaks Up Behind You. He's off today. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ." He started to turn away.
"No, I won't excuse you! You work here?"
"Yessir. Really, I oughta get going. I'm not supposed to talk to you. Wow. This is weird."
"No kidding." Harry's heart rate slowed. The guy didn't seem dangerous, just incoherent and nervous. "Who are you?"
"Didn't I say? I'm the Thing That—"
"Hides Behind Doors. I caught that. I just don't know what it means."
The guy fidgeted, his big watery eyes bobbing this way and that. "It means . . . well, pretty much what it says. I hide behind doors. I'm a—a Thing."
"A thing . . ." Harry shook his head. "What do you mean 'a thing'?"
The protuberant eyes flicked back to Harry's face. "I really shouldn't be talking to you. Can I go now?"
"Go? I find you in my bathroom and I'm supposed to just let you go?"
"Aw, c'mon. I promise to do better. Only don't tell the Boss."
"How about the police?"
He seemed puzzled. "The police? What would the police care? This isn't their jurisdiction . . . is it?"
"I'm willing to find out." Harry stepped backwards into the hall.
The little fellow quivered and glanced feverishly about. "Oh, jeez, mister. I don't want—" His eyes darted to a spot over Harry's left shoulder and froze there. "Oops."
Harry swung around. A tall, thin, sepulchral fellow faced him across the upstairs runner. He wore a black serge suit with a long coat and string tie. Sad, dark eyes were a perfect match for the doleful set of his mouth, while graying eyebrows arched toward a distant hairline. The man inclined his head.
Harry dropped into a posture he'd seen in a Jackie Chan movie. "Stay back. I know Kung Fu."
"Of course you do, sir. But I came only to apologize."
"Apologize . . ."
"For the behavior of my staff."
"Your staff?" Harry realized he was echoing, but could think of nothing remotely intelligent to say.
"The Household Things. I am, I regret to say, the Chief Thing for this domicile. I am forced to admit, sir, that in all my years in your service, I have never had such a raw and undisciplined crew."
"You've . . . you've been in my service," Harry echoed, "for years."
"Well, not your service precisely, sir, but your family's. In fact, I've been in service to this family since you married and rented that quaint little cottage on Sepulveda." He said "quaint" with the same disdain Scott showed when he said "peas." "Your personal staff are quite good, if I do say so myself, but these other Things . . ." The sad eyes rolled heavenward.
"What do you mean 'things'? What things?"
"Well, sir, since you inquired—there are three classes of Things in your service. Personal Things (which include myself and immediate staff), Furnishings Things, and of course Household Things such as the Thing That Hides Behind Doors." Contempt curled his thin lips. "It is the last group that has caused the trouble, I fear. They are inexperienced and cocky, which I suspect comes with attachment to one of these 'designer' homes. Modern conveniences, indeed."
"They've caused trouble?"
"Oh, sir, surely you've noticed how clumsy they are. Never waiting long enough to turn on lights you've turned off; open doors you've closed; close doors you've opened. And they are too ambitious altogether. Why the Thing That Lurks in the Closet of your youngest daughter's room has been bucking for a promotion to Thing That Hides Under the Bed since you moved in. He's disturbed the dear child a number of times. No, I fear your Household Things are utterly without experience and poorly trained."
"P-poorly trained?"
"Especially in comparison with your Personal and Furnishings crews."
"Ah," Harry said, as if he understood one word of what this odd man was telling him. "Those crews are . . . more experienced and better trained, then."
The funereal fellow drew himself up to his full height, reminding Harry of Jeeves, the quintessential butler. "I pride myself on it, sir. As I said, your Personal Things have been with your family since your first rental. And even your Furnishings Things have been with you long enough to understand your comings and goings—with the possible exception of the Thing that came with your new car."
"A Thing came with my car?"
"Yes sir. The Thing That Kicks the Driver's Seat. He's the newest member of the crew. But I have confidence that in a few weeks time, he'll get the hang of it."
"M-my car has a Thing."
"Yes sir. As do all your major appliances."
"Appliances . . . as in our washing machine and dryer?"
"The Thing That Hides Socks."
"Our refrigerator?"
"The Thing That Drinks the Last of the Milk and Puts the Carton Back Empty."
"I thought that was my son."
Jeeves beamed. "As you were meant to, sir."
"Is there a Thing That Feeds Pâté to the Cat?"
"That would be your youngest daughter. You also have a Thing That Rumples the Carpets. In some homes he would also do bedspreads, but you have a cat for that purpose. Cats are honorary Things," he added.
Harry rubbed his temples. "You and your staff work at scaring us?"
"Oh, no sir. Our purpose is to engage you, keep you on your toes, make your lives interesting. And of course, to give your home a personality—to make it feel lived-in."
"Lived-in? It feels haunted. And I'm not engaged, I'm frustrated."
"For which I am profoundly sorry, sir. Were your Household Things better trained, you would never have noticed us at all."
"I find that hard to believe."
"You never noticed us before."
"Wait a minute. Are you responsible for carting our cookware all over the house?"
"You see—that's exactly what I mean. That unfortunate incident was perpetrated by the Thing That Misplaces Your Belongings—a Household Thing unversed in the Protocols. No Thing under my tutelage would have made such a gross error as to move that box to the target area so quickly."
"Target area? Protocols? What are you talking about?"
"Domestic Protocols, sir. You can't run a household without them. Take, for example, your cookware. Protocol requires that the movement of such articles be made in logical increments over time so that if the movement is noticed it can be easily attributed to the natural propensity of people to displace items that are in the way. So your cookware should have been moved from the kitchen floor to the top of the refrigerator, or to the floor of an adjacent room. Then it should have been moved to sit among those boxes that are still halfway up your staircase."
Harry detected a note of reproach in that "still." "We've been busy."
"Of course you have, sir. And so, unfortunately, have your Household Things. They saw fit to take your cookware directly from the kitchen floor, under the table, to the upstairs bathroom atop the étagère."
"The what?"
"The shelved unit above the toilet tank."
"Why there?"
Jeeves shrugged as if that should be the most obvious thing in the world. "A simple case of geometry. Each house is divided into quadrants. Likewise each room. Articles are moved so as to end up in the quadrant opposite the one in which they were originally located. So, from the lowest point along the southwest wall of your kitchen . . ."
"To the highest point on the northeast wall of our upstairs bathroom."
"Precisely, sir. You have a keen grasp of the situation."
"Thanks. So, everything we own is going to be moved around like this forever?"
"Oh no, sir. Every object has a particular place in which it belongs. We move only objects that are not where they belong. The cookware was on the floor under your kitchen table. Not at all where it belonged, sir."
"Uh-huh. Does everybody have . . . Things?"
"Every man, woman, and child who inhabits a domicile built or remodeled since 1900."
"Siberian sheepherders?"
"They call them domovoi, sir. Siberia is not the backwater you might think it is. Now, sir, I really must go. I've broken Protocol in discussing this with you, but I felt an apology was imperative." He executed a smart little bow and said, "Good-day, sir. I promise we will do better."
Harry reached out to prevent him from leaving, but the front door banged open, startling him.
"Da-ad!" Kim's voice carried up the stairs. "I brought some friends home. We're going to the den to study."
Harry took his eyes off the Head Thing for only a second, but it was enough. He was gone.
"Hey!" Harry stage whispered. Then louder: "Hey! Where'd you go?"
"The den, Dad. Why?"
Harry crossed the hall to look down the stairs. Kim had poked her head back into the foyer and was peering up at him.
"It's nothing. Just . . . have fun."
"Yeah. Right. Fun." She disappeared.
Harry made a systematic search of the second floor, but found nothing. He spent the remainder of the day in a state between credulity and denial. He considered telling Marilyn, but she'd only say he was over-stressed. Was he? Undoubtedly. But he'd never heard of stress manifesting itself as a six-foot-seven "Jeeves" archetype who claimed he'd been working for you unseen for umpteen years. No, he couldn't tell Marilyn.
In the end, he decided there was only one person in the family who wouldn't think he was nuts if he started asking questions about Things That Go Bump in the Night, and she was at the mall.
To kill time, he ran experiments. He collected odd items—useless keys, a penlight, one of Meg's bevy of Furbees—and put them in places they definitely did not belong. Then he went into the kitchen and unpacked the remainder of the boxes there. When he went back to check on his experiments he met with uneven results. The keys and Furbee were gone, the penlight was right where he'd left it.
He embarked on a systematic search of the premises based on what Jeeves (possibly a figment of his imagination) had told him about protocols. He'd left the Furbee on the hearth in the living room; he looked for it on the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. No luck. He moved to the foyer next. Nothing.
Okay. Cut to the chase. If our Things are extremists, then the Furbee should be . . . He sprinted upstairs to Meg's room—opposite side of the house, second floor, opposite quadrant.
