_It doesn't take a heap of leaving
to make any house a nightmare. One
vanishing door will do nastily._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It was a tremendous house. And they were newlyweds. And were still a
mite flighty. And for a while that accounted for the whole thing.
At the moment, it seemed to Ernie Lane that in a house which even the
real estate agent said had "either" eleven or twelve rooms, it was
quite conceivable that he and Melinee had overlooked that extra room.
After all, they had only been living at 1312 Cedar Lane for four days
and had hardly had time to make a complete survey of the place.
Now it was quite different. For Ernie Lane had stopped walking
hurriedly past that extra door, had stopped giving it only casual
curiosity, had even stopped wondering afterward.
This night he had come home a bit tired, gone directly to greet his
loving wife, and then decided to put a stop to the gnawing question.
While Melinee fried the chicken, Ernie walked carefully and wordlessly
to the dim hallway. He went past the staircase, past the telephone, to
the darkest spot between the living room and the study. He stood for a
strange moment--there was no extra door.
He felt the refinished wall, his fingertips searching for hidden
panels. There was none.
"Supper's ready," Melinee called. "Ernie?"
But it had been there last night, the night before, the night before
that, and the very first night the real estate agent brought them over.
In fact, he recalled, that was the reason the agent had been uncertain
about the number of rooms. And why had he passed it off as a joke,
simply turning from the extra door without opening it?
Ernie felt again.
It was ceasing to be a joke. He was not a man of hallucinations. He was
not a victim of superstition, fear or near-sightedness. He only wanted
to know why he saw a door one day and didn't see it the next.
He called a comforting word to his wife, then reached for the telephone
book. He found the name of Hartley and Hartley, Real Estate. PLaza
0-6633. Without any undue commotion, he dialed. In a moment, a woman's
voice at the other end seemed to barge into his life.
"Special operator. Number, please?"
"PLaza 0-6633."
"Sorry, sir, we have no such number--"
Ernie let a disgruntled voice thunder into the phone: "Then what the
heck is Hartley and Hartley Realty doing with it?"