Disclaimer: The Twilight Zone is the work of Rod Serling, with the episode this story is based on having been written by Charles Beaumont. I have no claim on either of these entities and am writing purely for my own enjoyment.


Charlie listened carefully and attentively as Alice played the second movement of Mozart's Sonata Number 5 on her pianoforte. He was enjoying the small concert his beloved was giving for her friends ("their friends now," she'd told him) and her family. He was especially proud that he was seated in the first row of the chairs that had been placed in the music room—not only because he had a perfect view of her sweet face as she concentrated on her playing, but because he was sitting between Alice's father and mother. Towards the end of the second movement, Alice's mother looked over at Charlie and smiled gently at him. The older woman looked very much like her daughter, with delicate features and a lovely face, but sharpened ever so slightly by the additional years. He returned the smile, just as gently.

Several minutes later, when Alice had completed the third and final movement, she stood up, gave a graceful curtsey, and the audience applauded her perfect performance. "Thank you, everyone," she told them, her voice soft and shy. "I was delighted to play for you. I hope you enjoyed our luncheon, and…" she looked at Charlie and smiled, "Charlie and I look forward to your presence at our wedding next Saturday."

The room applauded again, and Charlie found himself blushing and grinning right through his fervent clapping.

After their guests had left, Charlie joined Alice and her parents in the sitting room to enjoy cups of steaming hot tea and rest a bit. Alice's father, a hefty yet urbane gentleman, took the opportunity to compliment his daughter's performance once again. "Lovely, dearest, absolutely lovely," he remarked to her. "I am confident your new home will be filled with beauty when you sit down to play."

"Have you looked in on the progress of the new house's construction?" Alice's mother asked.

"I have. Yesterday afternoon. It's a majestic thing to behold. You two will be quite happy there. And it shall be ready prior to the wedding, most definitely."

Alice clasped Charlie's hand. "Father, Mother, thank you for all you've done for us. Charlie and I couldn't be more pleased. Isn't that right, dear?" Alice looked at him with her large doe eyes, hoping for confirmation, as she always did.

Charlie smiled down at her. "Yes, that's right. Everything will be perfect."

Everything was perfect, already. Charlie had never felt so complete, never had such a sense of belonging before. Alice was everything he'd hoped for: kind, serene, gentle, and understanding. With her, there were no pre-conceived expectations of what he was supposed to be or what he was supposed to do. In her world, there were no busy, crowded city streets, or dingy, ugly apartments, or thick, dense smells of gasoline and frying grease. Here, there were no loud, demanding bosses, or flashy, aggressive women, or overbearing mothers.

And he was happy, truly he was. But still…there was one thing—one small thing. He missed his sister. Myra had always loved him unconditionally, and he'd felt guilty about leaving her behind without any word. It bothered him a little to acknowledge that when he married, there would be no one from his family there. He would have loved to have had Myra there—Buddy he could do without, of course—although he understood why she couldn't. Charlie was sure that Myra missed him too, but if she'd only known where he'd gone and why he'd done what he did, she would have understood. He knew it.

Sometimes, when Charlie had a quiet moment to himself in this new world, he'd think of his sister. Did she worry about him? Was she still looking? Of course, no matter how many times Charlie's thoughts were set on this track, they always arrived at the same conclusion: Myra would be fine. She had her job and her husband and her friends, and perhaps a few children soon to make her life full. She didn't need Charlie.

The two couples continued their conversation about the upcoming wedding for a few more minutes, and then there was a knock on the door. Who could that be, everyone wondered to themselves. It was getting rather late for impromptu visitors. Frowning, Mr. Summers stood and went to the door, meeting Mary, their maid. "Go ahead, Mary. Open it," he instructed. Charlie and Alice looked at each other, then stood as well.

"Breedwell!" Charlie heard Mr. Summers exclaim in a not-too-pleased voice. Instantly he felt Alice's hand clench around his.

"Why is he here?" Mrs. Summers asked. Alice whimpered. Charlie felt his heart begin to race.

"Well, hello Copley, old friend!" an overly theatrical voice boomed. "All is well with you and your kin, I hope?"

"What business do you have here?"

"Ah, just wanted to pay my respects!" the visitor walked into the sitting room (Mr. Summers close at his heels), where Charlie, Alice, and her mother stood. It was the scoundrel Charlie had seen in the house earlier, when he was still in the outer world. He was vile and unctuous, with his greasy, slicked-back black hair, curled mustache, and tiny, weasel-like eyes. Breedwell set those eyes on Alice, and Charlie could feel a shudder go through her by way of their clasped hands.

"Alice, sweet Alice! I declare that you grow lovelier with each day!" Breedwell exclaimed. He reached out for her hand, only to have Charlie stand between them. "Mr. Summers a-a-asked you a ques-question," Charlie stuttered, trying desperately to look brave. "What business do you have here?"

Breedwell narrowed his eyes, seemingly trying to measure Charlie up. His swine-like face melted into a mocking smile. "And who is this? A new…servant, perhaps?"

"How dare you! This is my daughter's fiancée!" Mrs. Summers chided him.

The man's eyes seemed to darken for a moment, and Charlie felt an ice cold ribbon of fear replace the burning hot anger that had been running through his system. "Fiancée? Alice's fiancée? Ha! What nonsense!"

Alice emerged slightly from behind Charlie. "It's true. It's true, Edgar! I'm marrying Charlie! Now, go—please, just go!"

"Just a moment, Alice." Breedwell spun around, to face Mr. Summers. "Copley, old chap, pray tell me: do you remember the agreement we made two years ago, when you desperately tried to find an investor for that garment press you were developing? Do you recall, how nearly all of your peers told you it was a waste of time—nearly all, that is, except me? Would you be so good as to refresh my memory—refresh all of ours, actually—how much money did I provide to you?"

Mr. Summers took a deep breath. "Two hundred," he muttered.

"Oh yes! Of course. It was two hundred. How could I have forgotten?" Breedwell waved his cane around in that over-exaggerated manner of his, and for once in his life, Charlie had to do everything in his power to keep himself from punching the man in the face. "And in return for my show of good faith, what exactly was it that you promised to me? Hmm?"

Alice's father swallowed tightly, exchanged a miserable look with his wife, then replied, "That I would allow you to court my daughter, and if you asked for my blessing to marry her, I would give it."

"No!" Charlie cried out, wrapping his arms around Alice, who clung to him, trembling. "Father, please! Please make him leave!" she cried.

"It's all right, Alice dear," Mr. Summers assured her. "Mr. Breedwell, you rendered our agreement null and void when you burst into my home and assaulted my child. Thank heaven Charlie interrupted you, or who knows what you might have done?" Both Alice and her mother sobbed at the memory of this event.

Breedwell rolled his eyes casually at this accusation. "I harmed no one, Summers. Mere hysterics on sweet Alice's part. I can assure all of you, I take very good care of my…hmm…possessions." Breedwell's eyes took on a lecherous gleam as he surveyed Alice's body.

"You!" Charlie lunged at the man, feeling a fresh wave of rage flow through him. Alice's father caught him. "Now, Charlie, son. Self-control!" the older man soothed him. He turned to Breedwell. "Get out of my house, Breedwell! Or I might just let my soon to be son-in-law give you the thrashing you so richly deserve!"

"Hmph! Very well. I'll leave—for now." Breedwell started to stomp away, then stopped. "But a debt is a debt, Summers! And permitting Mr. Nobody from Nowhere to marry Alice won't help you. Remember that!" He quickly stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh no…no…" Alice clung to Charlie, crying. Charlie held her to him, trying to comfort her, but he felt empty—drained, somehow. It was as if he was walking on the moon and some of the gravity he was used to that held him down was gone. He was floating, but not in a good way.

"I…I'm sorry…but…I think I need to…" Charlie felt his knees start to buckle, but he felt Copley Summers' arms around him, keeping him up.

"Oh dear. Charlie, I think we should get you to bed. Mary!" Alice's father called. When the maid arrived, he ordered her to take Charlie's arm, while he held the other.

"Let me help!" Alice offered.

"No, dear. We need to get Charlie to his room. It wouldn't be proper," her mother gently warned her. Charlie lived in the Summers' home—what had been the dollhouse he'd observed in his own world. However, his room was on the far end of it—with several rooms between his and Alice's. Given Charlie's arrival into their world, the Summers understood, of course, that he had no material possessions, and no domicile of his own. He would live with them until he married their daughter and they relocated to their own home, but every precaution was taken to ensure that the two of them were not engaged in any activities required to be within the bounds of matrimony. In this particular case, however, Charlie couldn't help but be a little frustrated with this, even in his weakened state. He wanted Alice by his side, within his sight—especially with that brute Breedwell prowling around their home and family.

"Alice…need to make sure she's all right…" Charlie mumbled to Mr. Summers as he was placed upon the bed and covered with a sheet.

"Of course, my boy, of course," Mr. Summers reassured him with a smile. "You need to rest now."

"But…"

"She'll be fine. Worry not. Come Saturday, you and Alice shall be wed, and all shall be well."

Charlie smiled dreamily as Mary fluffed his pillow, and turned down the lamp. "Yes…Saturday…we will be wed…"


The street corner outside of the Summers' home was dark, quiet, and peaceful. Edgar Breedwell put a cigar to his lips and puffed at it thoughtfully while he stared up at the towering house with its many dimly lit windows. One by one, he watched as the lights were put out, until there was only one faithful lamp burning in the front. Finally. Everyone was done for the night.

A few minutes later, Edgar heard the front door open, and watched as the door slowly pushed open and a figure emerged. To his relief, it was Alice, light in her hand, coming up the cobblestone path.

"Hey," she greeted him casually, as she pushed the gate open.

"Hey yourself," he replied back, helping her to push the door back into place and lock it behind her. They walked slowly together—not venturing far from the house, just enough to be able to hold a private conversation.

"I hope you weren't waiting too long. Sorry if you were," she told him.

"Nah, wasn't long at all. Thanks again for sharing with me," he replied.

She waved it off. "Oh please. It was nothing. Plenty to spare. Besides, you would have done the same for me if the shoe were on the other foot."

"Oh yeah of course. I'll try to save you some when I get back so we're even."

"No, no. I don't want you to do that. You need to save every bit for yourself. You never know if you'll need it later." She leaned in to him and said in a low voice, "You know it's getting harder and harder now. It's not easy like it used to be."

His face grew sad in the moonlight. He knew exactly what she was talking about. "Yeah, I know." He put out the cigar he was smoking and tried to change the subject. "So how are things going with you and Charlie? Are you happy?"

She chuckled lightly. "The real question is, is he happy? Yeah, he is. We are. It's been going real well for us. I think we'll make it to the very end, me and him."

"Of course you will. He's not missing his family, is he? You said he had an old mother and nothing else really, right? Or was it a brother he had, or something?"

"A sister. He actually compared me to her a little, at first! Ha! But no, he's accepted he's never going to see her again. She's married and has her own family, so no worries there."

"That's good. I think it's all coming together for you." He smiled at her.

"And it will for you too, don't worry. When do you leave?"

"The day after tomorrow. I'm going alone."

"Alone? Are you sure?"

"I think I have a better chance of making a catch that way." He suddenly considered something. "I can put off my trip until after your wedding, if you want. You know, in case you need me to drum up some more—"

"No, no. I don't want you to do that. You need to take care of yourself. I can see it on you."

Edgar frowned as he imagined what he must have looked like, even in the darkness: tired, empty, depressed. At least, that's how he felt these days. "Yeah, I need to go. I just…I just don't want to be disappointed, you know?"

She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Patience. You know that's the key. Patience. It takes time. Look how long it took me to find Charlie, but it worked out, didn't it? It'll work out for you too."

He covered her hand with hers. "Thanks, kid. I'm gonna head off. Have a good time on Saturday, okay?"

"For sure! Good luck." She smiled and waved as he disappeared into the night, then returned to the dollhouse and shut the door behind her.


Myra couldn't sleep, but it didn't surprise her. She didn't sleep much these days—not since her brother disappeared without a trace. She went to bed at night, mainly to maintain the appearance of normalcy for her husband, but sleep didn't come. She'd lie there, watching the hours shift from one to the next on her bedside clock and listening to Buddy lightly snore next to her. By early morning her mind would finally be fatigued enough and would shut itself down for an hour or two, and then she'd be up again, getting Buddy out of bed, making his lunch and breakfast, and getting him out the door to his work.

At least she didn't have to worry about having to go to a job anymore. Her sleeplessness had affected her work at the real estate firm to such an extent that she couldn't be trusted any longer. She had become sloppy and careless: making errors in settlement sheets; filing listings in the wrong places; taking messages for the agent she supported, and then forgetting to give them to him. Finally Mr. Dandridge, the owner, sat her down and told her that while he was sympathetic to what had happened to her family (they all were, he'd made sure to add), she was costing the company time and money with the mistakes she was making.

"Take some time off, Myra," Mr. Dandridge told her. "Six months—a year if you need it. Your job will still be here when you get back. Give yourself some time to grieve. I'll be in touch."

Myra thanked her boss, left his office, and mechanically began to pack the things up at her desk. She could feel the other girls, and even some of the agents, staring at her while she worked. They all talked about her behind her back—she knew it. Some of them probably were laughing at her, but for the most part, they probably just pitied her…and Myra wasn't sure which was worse. Harriet Gunderson had told the rest of them about the disastrous date she'd had with Charlie, and getting stood up by him the night be disappeared. Harriet didn't talk to Myra anymore, just threw her looks of regret every now and then. Myra didn't blame her for feeling lousy about it—she would have too, if it had been her—but it just seemed to twist the knife deeper into the wound.

She said her goodbyes, gave her badge back to Wilma, the receptionist, and headed out the door to walk the three blocks back to her apartment. Mr. Dandridge had framed her ousting as "time off," but Myra had a feeling he was giving her the boot while keeping his conscience as unburdened as possible. She wasn't important to the company; he'd find another girl who could do her job in less than a week.

As she was walking up Strawbridge Avenue, holding up the heavy cardboard box and feeling the cold ache of exhaustion in her brain, something else occurred to her—something Mr. Dandridge had said. Give yourself some time to grieve.

Grieving indicated that there was something lost—something that couldn't be reclaimed. Is that what Mr. Dandridge believed? Was that what everyone believed? When her co-workers, friends, and neighbors had held her hands and shaken their heads, were they doing so because they thought that Charlie was never coming back? But how could they be so sure about that? What the hell did any of them know? The anger Myra felt about this had renewed her strength and she powered through the last block of her walk until she was finally home. To hell with them! Charlie wasn't dead. There was no evidence that he was dead, so he had to be alive! The police had said so themselves that there was no indication of foul play—though, admittedly, they had very little to go on. No one had come forward with any information, any sightings of him. He'd just seemed to vanish into thin air.

That was what made the last two months so difficult—knowing nothing at all. That, and the guilt.

Myra had pushed Charlie too hard. She'd been too domineering and overbearing with him; it wasn't as if he didn't already have to deal with that from their mother. Myra should have been the voice of reason, trying to mediate between Mama and Charlie, and being gentler with him. She'd forced him to go on that date with Harriet, knowing full well she wasn't right for him. She just thought—she'd hoped—that perhaps Harriet would be a springboard for Charlie, helping him to build his confidence in interacting with the opposite sex so that when the right girl came along, he would be ready. He'd finally marry and move out and have a life of his own. Myra only wanted the best for her big brother.

But instead of helping him to blossom, she'd only succeeded in making him retreat even farther into that imaginary world he'd created. His obsession with that dollhouse in the museum overwhelmed his common sense. And that doctor! He'd been so sure he'd cured Charlie. The lousy quack. Myra was sure that if they'd just brought Charlie to her place, let him stay with her for the weekend so they could sit down and really talk things out, she would have been able to bring him back to reality. But no—they had him committed like he was some of lunatic, and that was the last straw. Myra knew what Charlie had been thinking: what do I have to lose? They think I'm crazy. I might as well leave.

But where in heaven's name had he gone? That question she always came back to stuck in her belly like a rusty knife, and this time it forced her out of bed. Myra stood, putting on her slippers and robe, pausing only when Buddy shifted and mumbled something unintelligible, then grew quiet again. She made her way to the kitchen and turned on the light, then sat down at the dining room table and took a cigarette that was sitting in a pack in a black wooden bowl in the middle. She breathed out the smoke, watching it drift upwards and dissipate into the open air. There one moment, gone the next, she mused.

She was nearly finished with the first cigarette and about to move to another when the phone rang. She crinkled her nose at it, wondering who on earth would be calling at such an ungodly hour. Maybe it was a fluke. But then she quickly sprung up and jogged to the living room when it rang another time. In spite of the fact that Buddy slept like the dead, Myra didn't want to risk waking him.

"Hello?" she asked in a hoarse whispering voice that sounded more like a demand than a question.

"Is this Mrs. Russell? Mrs. Myra Russell?" The voice on the other end was a woman's, and while it sounded polite, it was also very firm. Myra was reminded of the nuns who taught at the grammar school she'd gone to as a girl.

"Yes, it is," Myra replied.

"Mrs. Russell, my name is Melissa Rye. I apologize for the timing of my call, but it was imperative that I spoke to you as soon as possible. It concerns your brother, Mr. Charlie Parkes."

Myra felt her heart thrumming in her ears. The hand that held the receiver shook. "Charlie? What about him? Where is he?"

There was a pause. "I don't know for certain, but I have my suspicions. I believe I know how he was taken, and—I'm sorry to tell you this—I believe he is in great danger."