The Complete Adventures of Toffee

by Charles F. Myers

  “Don’t be so disgusting,” Marc said. Then, gazing upward, he suddenly blanched. His mouth fell slack. The girl had loosened her hold on his neck and was sitting up, gazing down at him. In his confusion Marc didn’t even notice that the thing she was sitting on was his stomach. The girl was the same one in the dream. The girl was Toffee!

  “Oh, Lord!” he moaned. “You’re... !”

  “Of course,” Toffee said brightly. “I made it. I’m here.”

  “Then this is really a dream,” Marc said dazedly. “I’m still in bed asleep. I only dreamed I woke up and came down here.”

  “Wrong, son,” Toffee said briefly. “This is no dream. This is for real.”

  MARC STARED at her in disbelief. “Wait a minute...” he breathed. Then he reached out a hand, touched her, and quickly drew it away.

  “That’s the general idea,” Toffee said.

  Marc drew back with a gasp. “You’re really here!”

  “I have other ways of proving it,” Toffee said. She leaned toward him.

  “No!” Marc cried. “But... but... how ...!”

  Toffee smiled. “It’s very simple. You’ve projected me through your awareness. I guess I must have made quite an impression on you in that dream. Heavens knows I tried, but I didn’t think I was really getting any psychic cooperation. Anyway, I managed to stick to the conscious part of your mind instead of the subconscious, and you projected me into reality.”

  “Oh, no!” Marc gasped. “No! This can’t happen! I didn’t mean it! You’ve got to go back!”

  “Too late now,” Toffee said. She removed herself from Marc’s middle and plumped herself down beside him. “There’s no use fighting it. You can’t control it. Of course I’ll disappear and return to your mind whenever you go to sleep. You’ll stop projecting me then. But I’ll be right back again the moment you wake up.” She sighed happily. “I’m so tickled I could pop.”

  “Don’t!” Marc cried. Anything was easily within the realm of possibility, now. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Toffee cast him a sidelong glance. “I could make a list of suggestions,” she murmured, “and we could run through them in the order named. And if there are any terms you don’t understand I’ll explain them.”

  “Holy smoke!” Marc said, staring at her. “Haven’t you any sense of decency at all?”

  “None worth mentioning,” Toffee answered. “Should I have?”

  “No one ever needed anything worse,” Marc said emphatically.

  Toffee glanced curiously about her. “This place is a mess,” she commented. “Is your whole world as shabby as this?”

  Marc shook his head, explained briefly about the explosion.

  “I don’t understand about human beings,” Toffee said. “The minute they get their hands on anything they have to start changing it so that it serves a purpose exactly opposite what it was intended for. What goes up must come down, what goes down must come up. You’re all perfectly mad, all of you. Are you happy that you’ve managed to make heavy things light?”

  “What?” Marc asked absently.

  “I asked you if you were happy now that you’ve managed to make all that stuff behave contrary to its nature, rather indecently I might add.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marc asked.

  “All that stuff floating around on the ceiling,” Toffee said. She pointed.

  Marc whirled about to gaze in the direction she indicated. Then he sucked in his breath with a sharp gasp. Toffee had spoken the truth. Slowly, the rubble was rising from the floor of the basement to the ceiling. Some of it had already described the full journey and was hovering about the ceiling. Chairs, pieces of desk, desk drawers, fragments of equipment, scraps of metal were bobbing about next to the ceiling like apples in a washtub on Hallowe’en. Marc suddenly felt very lightheaded. In a matter of minutes the world had become an unfamiliar place; reality quickly slipped away from him and he was caught for a moment in a spell of moon-splashed madness.

  “My God!” he whispered. “I did it!”

  “You certainly did.” Toffee said. “Now how are you going to get all that stuff down again?”

  UNEXPECTEDLY, Marc jumped to his feet, made a quick lunge toward a small black book that was rising rapidly toward the ceiling. But he was too late; it moved beyond his reach and came to a solid rest against the ceiling.

  “Damn!” Marc said.

  “What is it?” Toffee asked.

  “The book that I recorded my formulas in,” Marc said. “I have to have it. When this gets out...”

  Toffee rose to his side and placed her arms around his neck.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Marc said. “Can’t you think of anything else?”

  “It’s difficult,” Toffee said. “But at the moment I’m trying to help you. Lift me up and I’ll reach the book for you.”

  “Oh,” Marc said. He held his hands down for her to step into, then boosted her up. As she rose above him he was surprised at how light she was. He glanced up. One hand on his shoulder, Toffee was stretching the other toward the wayward book. She didn’t quite make it. She glanced down at Marc.

  “Hold steady,” she said. Then she let go of his shoulder and stood upright, depending entirely on his hands for support. She reached out, caught hold of the book, and smiled down at him. It was just as she was bending down again that she lost her balance.

  In the next instant Marc’s head and shoulders became the center of what seemed to be a dozen flailing arms and legs.

  In an effort to save the situation, Marc stepped back and held out his arms, just in time for Toffee to strike him solidly on the chest. In the tangle that followed they both tumbled to the floor. When Marc looked up Toffee was once more seated comfortably and safely on his stomach. She looked down at him and laughed.

  “Does it strike you that a certain monotony has come into our relationship?” she asked.

  “It strikes me that a certain pain has come into my stomach,” Marc wheezed. “Would you be kind enough, I wonder, to take a seat elsewhere for a change? Or am I going to have to wear you like a watch fob from now on?”

  Toffee eyed his midsection with scorn. “If you think that shriveled bladder of yours is so comfortable, you just ought to try sitting on it sometime.”

  “That would make an interesting spectacle,” Marc commented acidly. “If I’m not comfortable to sit on it’s probably because you landed on me so hard you’re on my spine. Get off.”

  “A pleasure,” Toffee said and slid to the floor beside him. “Here’s that silly book of yours.” Without thinking, except to express her contempt for Marc’s central region as a seating arrangement, she tossed the book in his direction. The book described a small arc toward Marc, then promptly swooped upward in rapid ascent.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Marc said. He sat up and grabbed just in time. “Let’s not... !”

  Suddenly he stopped as a series of footsteps sounded on the floor above.

  “Julie!” he hissed in a stage whisper. “My wife!”

  “Marc!” Julie’s voice called distinctly. “Marc! Where are you? What was all that noise?”

  Marc turned to Toffee. “Go!” he said. “Vanish!”

  Toffee gazed blandly on his distress. “I can’t,” she said, “unless you go to sleep, of course. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Marc groaned. He stood for a moment, torn.

  “Marc!”

  Julie was approaching the basement doorway now.

  “I’ve got to go,” Marc rasped. “You stay here. Promise?”

  Toffee smiled and nodded. “Sure,” she said. “But you’ll come back, won’t you? Because if you don’t I’ll stir up enough hell down here to raise the dead.”

  “I’ll come back,” Marc promised desperately, and started rapidly toward the steps.

  “Just a minute,” Toffee said. She held her arms out to him. “Kiss me goodbye.”

  “No,” Marc said.

 
“I’ll scream,” Toffee said coolly. “I’ll yowl like a banshee.”

  Marc went quickly back to her. “It’s not as though I won’t be right back. Just a little while...”

  “That’s all right,” Toffee murmured. She slid her arms smoothly around his neck. “This is just so you won’t forget.”

  “Marc!” Julie called from upstairs. “Where are you? What are you doing? Answer me!”

  CHAPTER III

  MARC STEPPED into his room and closed the door, but gently, leaving it still open just a crack. He listened. Across the hall, Julie went into her room, closed the door. There was an interval of silence, then the sound of restless movement inside.

  Julie’s manner downstairs had been tentative, apprehensive and almost frighteningly gentle. She had seemed to believe Marc’s story about investigating noises but she had asked once too often if he was feeling well, if the explosion hadn’t left him with a terrible headache.

  Marc closed the door all the way, went over to the bed, and sat down to wait; she’d settle down in time and then he could return to the basement. He looked around absently and as his gaze passed the window he noticed that the first faint wash of day had come into the sky outside. He reached to the nightstand, picked up a cigarette and lit it. He took a deep draft and blew the smoke out thinly, thoughtfully. With worried bewilderment he considered the fading night’s absurdities.

  It was as though, in creating the explosion and upsetting the laws of gravity, he had thrown all the processes of the universe out of kilter—as though all the natural laws were balanced precariously one atop the other, so that when one was broken or removed, all the others came tumbling down to shatter at your feet in consequence. A redheaded dream could come to life and laugh and sing and guzzle your wine and raise hell in general all over the lot. Things that were never meant to could begin to float through the air. It was a disconcerting state of affairs just to contemplate, let alone experience. Nature had certainly gone on a bender tonight and no mistake. If these things could happen what else might not be possible? Marc dreaded to think.

  If Marc had been able to look into the unknown regions beyond the universe he might have had a quick answer to his question. But not a reassuring one...

  In a timeless, unboundaried place, an entity sat cross-legged on a drifting piece of atmosphere and gazed with jaundiced and disconsolate eye toward the regions of Eternity. He looked unhappily on the undiscovered planets whirling and drifting in the distance and said an extremely vulgar and basic word. He plucked a handful of atmosphere from the piece on which he sat, untangled his long legs from beneath his misted robes, and, in a modified way, drop-kicked it into the hereafter. He repeated the word.

  George Pillsworth, the spirit of Marc Pillsworth, was bored to the socks with the world beyond. He frowned, and the face of Marc Pillsworth expressed disfavor. He leaned forward and dangled his hands between his knees, and it was the lean body of Marc Pillsworth that leaned and the thin hands of Marc Pillsworth that dangled. There, however, the resemblance rocked to a jarring stop.

  The message vibrations came trembling across space again, but George didn’t bother to listen to them. It was probably just the message center at its eternal business; probably another relay broadcast forwarding the same old answers to the same old mediums down on earth. The question came constantly for the upper level spirits: Are you happy, Uncle Howard? Are you happy, Sister Martha? Always the same silly question. The devil of it was that no one was ever allowed to give them a truthful answer; the News Control Board took care of that. The answer was always the same... probably recorded, George suspected ... transmitted from the message center: I am in a beautiful place. I am very happy.

  Very happy, indeed. In this place? George didn’t know about the Kingdoms; maybe they were all right, but this place was... Well, no, it couldn’t be that. But why didn’t they tell the truth for once: I’m in the dullest place in time, and if I had any blood I’d open my veins.

  THE THOUGHT of transmitting such a message to those bothersome earthly mediums pleased George immensely. That would rock them back on their heels and stop their silly questions. He leaned back on his atmosphere ledge and smiled for the first time in several days. Then suddenly he sat up as the transmitted vibrations grew more intense, and his own name sounded across time.

  “George Pillsworth! George Pillsworth! Report instantly to the High Council! Instantly! Shake a leg, you shabby spook!”

  George’s expression was instantly troubled. “Now what have they found out about?” he sighed.

  George paused to recount in his mind his more recent sins. Last week he had heard that humans often became quite rich by distilling spirits and had tried the process on a few of his friends. He had come close to narrowing the circle of his acquaintances to a positive noose. But they’d already had him on the carpet for that. All in all, a muggy affair. He shrugged resignedly, dissolved and concentrated his impulses toward the Council Chambers...

  An instant later George rose through the grey mists of the Chamber. He looked tentatively at the Council and quickly averted his gaze; to an entity, the Council stared back at him without affection or beauty. George cleared his throat nervously.

  “George Pillsworth, spiritual part to the mortal Marc Pillsworth, reporting as instructed,” he said.

  “And not a moment too soon,” the Head commented bleakly. “Face the Council, please. If you’ve the gall.”

  Guardedly, George raised his eyes to the Council. The sight was not heartwarming. The Council, under the very best circumstances, was not attractive. In a nasty mood it could be inconceivably ugly. Comprised of five members who prided themselves on being only concerned with the most profound matters of Eternity, the Council was not given to pursuits of vanity. It looked like hell and was proud of it.

  The Head had not been misnamed. An entity who functioned entirely on an intellectual plane, his body had dwindled through the years while his head had become enlarged. Now he was the proud possessor of the biggest, shaggiest, most formidable top-piece extant. The others were of a similar stamp, but to a lesser degree. Two of them had fairly well developed arms and shoulders but they did their best to hide the fact beneath their robes since it was a clear indication of inferior mentality. The one who was unfortunate enough to be cursed with rather a good set of legs was obviously to be regarded as not much of an intellect at all, a mere messenger boy or literally a leg man. To face the Council, then, was quite a lot to ask. Almost too much, as far as George was concerned.

  “He’s got the gall for anything,” one of the armed intellects commented nastily. “Remember when he was caught selling bogus passports to ascending spirits?”

  George blanched. He wished they would concentrate on the present and stop dragging up the past.

  The Head cleared his throat with a formidable rattle. “I think we can adhere to the matter at hand without involving personalities,” he said. “The fact that the Pillsworth entity is a spirit of the utmost depravity has already been established in this Council so often that the whole subject begins to take on the aspect of a broken record. We’ll come to that later if we must.” There was another clearing of the throat. “The entity will approach the Council.”

  “Forgive me, your honor,” one of the minor members of the Council intercepted. “But do you think that’s really wise? I know it’s part of the prescribed procedure, but mightn’t we leave it out, just this once? I don’t trust him a step nearer than he is already.”

  “I don’t trust him that close,” another of the members put in. “Couldn’t we reverse the procedure and have him go away from the Council?”

  The Head nodded. “You have a point there,” he said. He looked at George. “Pillsworth, retreat three steps backwards and stand at attention.”

  “I meant go away altogether,” the member murmured disappointedly. “I was hoping we could forget the whole thing.”

  GEORGE TOOK three steps backwards and assumed what he supposed could pass for
a position of attention. He tried to look alert.

  “Is this correct, sir?” he asked.

  “The entity will remain silent until requested to speak!” the Head thundered. “We’ll tell you when you’re wrong. Oh, brother!”

  “Yes,” said one of the others. “For heaven’s sake don’t let him get started. He’ll be talking us into giving him a down payment on the acres of Heaven.”

  “Yes,” the Head agreed. “And now to the business at hand.” He regarded George with even less approval than before. “It is the custom of the Council to advise and instruct every entity before he or she is released to the world below. He is to be charged here with his allotment of ectoplasm and called upon to swear from memory to the ten fundamental oaths as set down in the Haunter’s Handbook and Guide. Do you feel that you are prepared for the ceremony, Pillsworth, or would you like to request a delay for study and contemplation?”

  George shifted excitedly. He could hardly contain himself. This was the moment for which he had been waiting through all these eternal years. At last he was to be released to Earth. His heart fairly sang. From all he’d heard, Earth was precisely the place where his talents and aptitudes would find their proper market. He was so choked with emotion he could hardly answer.

  “I am prepared,” he said weakly.

  “However,” the Head continued with new emphasis, “there is considerable doubt as to the status under which you shall be released to the Earth ... that, not going into the Earth’s fitness to rise to the occasion of your arrival. It appears that your earthly past, Marc Pillsworth, has departed life, but there is a small degree of uncertainty about the whole affair. It is known that Marc Pillsworth was caught in a violent explosion in the basement of his home, and since then his cosmic radiations have broken. It is possible, considering the nature of the explosion, that there may be a chemical interference involved here if the chemical processes of Pillsworth himself have undergone some sort of change. However, it’s not likely.