When Charlie opened his eyes, it was to near-darkness. It was cool, colder than his old room usually was. He remembered quickly that he wasn't in his old room, or in his mother's home. He was in the townhouse, and it wasn't quite as warm as the world he came from.

Still, the quilt he'd been wrapped in was soft and provided some warmth, and he was comfortable. But he couldn't go back to sleep. He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, but he assumed it was now the middle of the night. How did he get there? What was the last thing he'd done? Charlie tried to remember.

But remembering made his head ache. Slowly…slowly. He breathed in deeply, and little by little, the memories returned. He'd been sitting with Alice and her parents…they were talking about the wedding…and then they were interrupted by that brute Breedwell—

Charlie sat bolt upright and threw off the covers. Alice! Where was she? What did that criminal do?

But wait. No, he left. Mr. Summers threw him out. And then…and then there was darkness. And sleep.

Charlie found a robe hanging from the wardrobe in his room and wrapped it about him, then walked to the door. He put his hand on the knob to turn it, then stopped. He'd never explored the dollhouse at night. He'd never explored the dollhouse at all – no!

Alice told him; he wasn't supposed to refer to her home as a "dollhouse"; it was her home, and she wasn't a doll.

"Please, darling," she'd pleaded, her blue eyes wide and searching. "I am not a doll. Please just forget that part of our meeting. I am a lady, and I live in a townhouse."

And so it was a townhouse, yes, but Charlie had never explored it on his own. He'd gone in the places where Alice and her parents were, when they went there, but never alone. But should he do this? He looked back, at the bed. He wasn't sleepy. What harm could there be in looking around?

He turned the knob, opening the door very carefully and peering out into the hallway. It was dark, save for a little bit of illumination from the moonlight streaming in through the window at the far end. He crept out, walking carefully down the hallway and down the stairs. The second to last step creaked under his foot, and he froze, looking around. But no one was there. Charlie got to the main floor, passing the Summers' enormous sky blue china vase, sitting on a pedestal in the shadows. Those shadows changed direction, moving from east to west. Charlie didn't notice.

He wasn't sure where to go exactly. The kitchen, perhaps? He wasn't hungry. Outside? He didn't want to get cold. He stood in the bluish dark, feeling lonely. He wished Alice was with him. He wished he could go to her room, sit with her perhaps. Maybe slip beneath the covers and hold her in his arms. The thought made his mouth feel slightly dry, and his skin hot. But no, he couldn't. It wasn't right. He didn't even want to think those thoughts until they were married.

Charlie finally decided to go to the library. Perhaps he'd find a book he liked and read a bit. The room was dim, but there was just enough light that he could find the oil lamp, sitting on the writing desk, and light the wick with the matches lying nearby. Instantly the room was suffused with a warm, orange glow from the flame. Charlie looked around, at the shelves stacked neatly with books, and chose a deep maroon bound text from one of them. He flipped open the book, thumbing through the pages, but for some reason, he wasn't able to read the words. The book appeared to be written in English, but Charlie had trouble deciphering the letters and then pulling them together into cohesive words his mind could comprehend. He tried looking at two other books on other shelves and had the same result.

Frustrated, he set the books on top of the others on the shelf and walked around the room, trying to find something else to look at. There was a cabinet in a far corner, away from the moonlight the window provided. He walked over to it and gripped the small metal handle of the door, and with a sharp pull, the door swung open. The first shelves sat near Charlie's torso and chest and were empty, but the top shelf was slightly above his head and appeared to have a large black book or a box on it. Lifting himself up onto his tiptoes, he pulled the object from the shelf. Whatever it was, it seemed to be quite heavy, and Charlie actually staggered backward from its dense heft and had to hold tight to it. Fortunately, he didn't make any noise or drop the object, so the peace of the household remained intact.

Turning himself around, Charlie heaved the object—a wide, square, velvet box about 14 inches wide and 3 inches deep—over to the writing desk. He ran his hands over it. In spite of the fact that the box appeared to be covered in velvet, the material didn't feel like what he was expecting—it felt cool and sort of wet under his fingertips. He wasn't sure if there was something inside, or if the box was solid. He felt around the edges and the middle of the box, until he felt something on the top of it shift, and what was most likely the lid was able to be pulled away.

Inside the box were sheets of paper with what appeared to be water color paintings. Charlie took one of the sheets out, and held it to the light of the oil lamp. The sheet of paper, like the box, had a strange feeling to it—it felt like very thin metal, like tin or aluminum. The picture on the sheet was even stranger. It was some sort of barren wasteland, draped in shades of sickening gray and purple. There were rocks, hills, and mountains, but no visible trees or other plants. As Charlie watched, he noticed that it seemed he was starting to see air currents moving over the mountains, distorting the face of the rocks. Then he saw something crawling over one of one of rocks, some sort of cross between a crab and a centipede, with multiple, moving legs. The insect paused for a moment, sending its feelers into the air, and suddenly, without warning, a huge fissure opened in the rock, underneath the insect, and it dropped into the fissure of the rock. The rock's surface rolled and undulated, and Charlie eventually realized that he was watching the rock consume and digest the insect.

He shuddered and threw the paper aside. He should have just walked—run—away, but he couldn't. Instead, he picked up another sheet and held it up to the light. This one was less disturbing, fortunately. It appeared to be an underwater image, based on the loosely formed bubbles and the bending of light. There were long, thin, bluish-white cylinders in the water, floating, moving. The cylinders had very tiny hairs on them, it appeared, and Charlie watched those little hairs become entangled with the hairs of another cylinder floating nearby. These two cylinders would be thrust together, and then their outer layers seemed to merge, little by little, until the two became one. This action seemed to happen several times with others of the cylinders, but occasionally a cylinder sent out its hairs to another cylinder, only to be repelled. There were a few rejected cylinders that eventually paired with different ones, and there were also some that tried and tried again to merge with other cylinders, but were continually rebuffed.

Charlie let out a sort of coughing, grunting noise, not knowing what to make of what we was looking at. He put this second sheet down and put up yet another. This sheet was black, completely black. But there was a small, white square in the upper left hand corner. It started to move down the sheet, then it seemed to unfold into an octagon. Then it twisted into an oval, and then broke apart into triangles—many, many triangles that overwhelmed the piece of paper. They started to layer on top of each other, more and more and more. Some of the triangles were started turning into squares, but there was so much on the paper, that the surface had now become a smooth, matte white color. And then, a few seconds later, a black square started to move down the paper again, and the process began once more—but in inverted colors. Charlie set the sheet of paper down.

Mrs. Summers was standing there.

The light of the oil lamp just barely illuminated her face, but what Charlie did see frightened him. It was cold, grim. He'd never seen her look that way. He startled, jumping back slightly with a yelp.

"Charlie." Alice's mother said in a stern, icy voice.

"Oh! Mrs. Summers!" Charlie managed to say. Her face frightened him. He felt like a little boy again, caught by his mother or a teacher, or some older female for doing something bad.

"You shouldn't be here, Charlie."

"I was…"

Suddenly she thrust her hand, open palmed, into his face. "You should be in bed."

…and then the morning sun was shining brightly into Charlie's bedroom window, and Mary was lighting a fire to warm the room while he sipped his tea and read the newspaper she brought him.


Buddy finished the last of his coffee and took another bite of his eggs. He didn't really like the way Myra had cooked them that morning—the yolks were hard when she knew full well he liked them runny—but after what she'd been through lately, he didn't want to be a jerk about little, dumb things. He looked over at her, standing next to the stove, biting on the knuckle of her right index finger and staring off into space. "Hey, babe?" he called to her. "More coffee?"

It took her a second, but she replied, "Oh, yeah. Okay."

Buddy went back to reading his paper, and a few moments later, he sensed Myra at his side. She had a frying pan in her hand and was about to slide more bacon onto his plate. "No, babe, no. I said more coffee," he told her.

"Right. Sorry." Myra left and returned with the coffee pot. As she poured, Buddy debated whether to ask her why she was so distracted. Charlie had disappeared weeks ago, yes, and he knew that Myra was struggling, but she hadn't been this out of it. Sure, she'd been depressed and angry up to then, but she'd still remembered when to wake him up, how to make breakfast the way he'd liked, to have the newspaper sitting next to his plate when he was out of the shower. Today she'd nearly let him oversleep, and when he asked where the paper was, there was a moment when she looked like she didn't understand what he was talking about.

Buddy sighed and finished off the eggs. That brother of hers. When Buddy thought about all the trouble he'd gone to to get Charlie that job, when he thought of how he had to lie through his teeth to Harriet Gunderson about what a swell cat his brother-in-law was—it hacked him. But what truly hacked him was how it was eating his wife up inside, not knowing where her brother went. Buddy didn't admit it to anyone (only to himself), but he found himself hoping that they'd just hurry up and find the guy's body in whatever alley or swamp he'd ended up in so that Myra and his mother-in-law could finally move on.

He looked over at the clock and saw it was time to head out. He wiped his mouth, got up from his chair, and announced, "I'm off! See ya at 5:30, babe."

Myra followed him to the door. "Have a good one," she told him.

Buddy looked back at her. Myra had never been a real looker, he would admit, but she was a good, loyal kid who loved him and took good care of him; that was enough for him. Now he saw—for the first time, really—the toll all this mess had taken on her. She looked pale and dried out, as if everything—water, light, air, joy—had been sucked out of her flesh. The dark circles under her eyes looked so deeply ingrained, they seemed more like tattoos inked under her skin rather than a temporary mark of a bad night's sleep.

"Myra…," Buddy murmured softly.

"Yeah, Buddy?"

"I…" he was about to ask what was eating her, but it was a stupid question to ask. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Try to rest yourself today, huh?"

"Yeah. I'll try."

"Promise?"

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "Yeah, I promise."

After Buddy left, Myra locked the door carefully behind her and tried to think of what to do with herself. It was only eight o'clock; the woman who'd called several hours earlier—Melissa was her name—agreed to visit Myra at ten. She had to kill another two hours, somehow.

Myra started to clean up the kitchen, as she typically would, but stopped. She was so distracted she tried to clean her frying pan with the bacon still in it, and nearly put the coffee grounds down the drain instead of in the trash can. Besides this, her hands were shaking so badly she was afraid she'd break a dish. Or perhaps more.

She gave it up, deciding instead to sit on the couch in the living room and watch television. The Today Show was on, and usually she found Hugh Downs' down-to-earth good looks and easygoing manner soothing, but not that morning. She couldn't focus on what she was watching; instead, she kept wondering if she'd made an enormous mistake, inviting a complete stranger who called her out of the blue, in the middle of the night, to her house. What if this woman—who claimed she knew where Charlie was and could help—was actually part of some gang who'd kidnapped him in the first place? What if, instead of her, it was a bunch of hoods who showed up at her door, with guns, demanding money? Myra hadn't told Buddy about the call at all, or that someone was coming today. At least the woman hadn't told her to keep it a secret—but then again, she hadn't really told Myra much at all.

"What's happened to your brother—what I think has happened to him, at least—it's too long and complicated to discuss over the phone. We need to speak in person," Melissa Rye had told her.

"Should we—should I meet you somewhere?" Myra had asked.

"I can come to you. We need to begin as soon as possible. I can be there as early as seven if you want."

"No! No, I'm sorry, but I have to get my husband ready and out to work at that time."

"Very well. Ten?"

And so it was ten they agreed upon. And Myra fretted that perhaps she should have demanded credentials or something before agreeing to this. But this woman had given her what no one else—not the doctors, not her family, not even the police—had been able to give her: hope that she could get her brother back. Myra decided, in very much a split second, that she was willing to take a chance for that hope.

Myra's mind must have eventually shut down and she fell asleep for a while, because the next thing she knew, there was a knock on her door. Her eyes flew open and once again, her heart was pounding in her ears like it had a few hours earlier. A quick glance at the clock on the mantle indicated that it was ten on the nose. Jumping to her feet, Myra smoothed her dress and her hair, walked to the door, and put her hand to the wood panel. "Who is it?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded steady.

"Mrs. Russell, it's Melissa Rye. May I come in, please?"

Myra took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and unlocked the door. She came face to face with a young woman, who appeared to be a few years younger than herself. This somewhat surprised Myra, because Melissa Rye's calm, brisk demeanor on the phone had led her to believe that the girl was older. She was slim, petite, and quite pretty, in an exotic, native sort of way. She had long, black hair that was pulled back in a half-ponytail, while the rest cascaded over her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her skin was a light tan, as though she'd lived in the tropics for most of her life, and her eyes were a warm shade of brown with glints of auburn.

The corners of Melissa Rye's lips turned upwards in a good-natured, but not happy smile. "Good day, Mrs. Russell."

It took Myra a few seconds to realize she was staring. "Oh, please come in!"

Myra watched the girl as she entered her home. Melissa Rye's clothes were strange—fashionable, but strange. She wore a long, black leather coat, a crisp, fitted, white button down shirt, a red full skirt that came down just after her knees, and tall, black, high-heeled boots. Myra was somewhat reminded of Paris and London models she'd seen occasionally in fashion magazines: the same confident, purposeful walk, the same humorless, determined facial expression. The girl sat herself down on the sofa, her posture so straight and poised that the nuns that taught at Myra's grammar school would have been moved to speechlessness. Myra now noticed that the only jewelry her guest wore were long, silver earrings in the shape of crescent moons. She watched them sway gently as she sat across from her guest.

"Cigarette?" Myra held out a fresh pack.

"No, thank you. I never smoke."

"Oh." Myra found this somewhat strange. "Well, then. May I offer you something to drink? Coffee or tea, perhaps?"

"No, that's all right. Thank you. I think we should get down to discussing the issue of your brother's disappearance."

"Yes, of course." Myra actually found the girl's directness comforting. She seemed very professional and businesslike, in spite of her youth and her style of dress. It alleviated some of her doubts that she'd done the wrong thing. Myra took a seat on the chair that stood perpendicular to the couch.

Melissa Rye leaned forward slightly. "Perhaps we should begin with you telling me what happened to Charlie, up to his disappearance?"

Myra sighed. "Very well." And so she explained to Melissa Rye how her older brother had always been a little shy and withdrawn, perhaps a little too lonely, but right before his disappearance, it had seemed to get much worse. Myra told the girl how Charlie had been fired from his job, how he'd become obsessed with going to the museum to look at a dollhouse, and how ultimately they'd had to have him committed when he vandalized the display. She also told her that Charlie had duped them, making them all believe that he was "cured" and then slipped out of the house when no one was watching.

Melissa Rye had listened quietly and attentively throughout Myra's story, but Myra hadn't missed the sharp look that appeared on her guest's face when she mentioned the dollhouse. "And the doctor assured us that Charlie was hiding somewhere in the museum, because he wanted to see that doll he was nuts over. But we searched the whole place, top to bottom, and we didn't find him. And that's it. There's been no trace of him since," Myra concluded.

Melissa Rye nodded gravely. "I see. I had a feeling—I'm sure I already knew—but hearing your story helped confirm it. I know what happened to him."

Myra's eyes widened with hope. "Well?"

The girl took a deep breath. "Charlie's been taken—kidnapped, I guess is the more exact term—by an entity I've been tracking for most of my adult life."

"An entity?"

"You see, Mrs. Russell…there are realms, or dimensions, that exist alongside of ours. The beings that inhabit one particular dimension feed on the energy we create in order to live. In order to feed on us, they have to bring us—our kind—into their dimension, so they lure us in. From what you told me, it sounds like one of these entities used the dollhouse to trap Charlie and pull him out of our world and into theirs."

Myra stared at the girl for a moment, then suddenly jumped to her feet. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Rye. This has been a mistake." She walked quickly to the door and opened it. "Please leave now."

Melissa Rye stood up. "I realize that what I've said sounds incredible, but I assure you…"

"You need help. Now get out, before I call the police."

"Mrs. Russell, you need to listen to me. You need to believe me!" Melissa Rye began to walk towards her.

Myra walked away from the door, sidestepping the girl, and went to the phone. She removed the handset and was just about to dial when she heard the girl say, "This morning, your husband asked for coffee and you brought him bacon."

Myra slowly brought the phone away from face and to her side, ignoring the mindless little hum of the dialtone. She stared at the girl, open-mouthed. "What—wait. How could you have known that?"

Melissa Rye ignored this question. "You were so nervous about meeting me that you started pouring soap and water in the pan, and there were still three strips of bacon in it. You think you threw the bacon away, but you left it lying on the counter!"

"This. Is. Nuts. Absolute nuts!" Myra cried out.

"Go look. Go look, Myra!" Melissa Rye demanded.

Myra was horrified, but somehow she managed to get her legs moving toward the kitchen. She peered in, very slowly and carefully. Right there, on her bright yellow counter, lay three pieces of cold bacon in a pool of soapy grease.

Myra gripped the wall for support, then turned and looked at the girl, who looked back at her with overflowing sympathy. "Sit down, Mrs. Russell," Melissa Rye told her gently. "I'll shut the door and put the phone back on the cradle…and I think I should make you a cup of tea."