by Becket
“You know, I’m not entirely certain,” he admitted. “It is a rather new invention.”
Then he pointed his onbrella up at the ceiling and shot out a burst of little fireworks.
“But I love doing that,” he said and chuckled.
Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley were beginning to enjoy Mr. Fuddlebee’s company very much. They had no idea what mystery he might find in their house. Yet they hoped he would stay longer than a day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Odd Door
Mr. Fuddlebee and the three Button children thoroughly explored the first floor. He pointed his onbrella into the living room, the study, the library, the dining room, the sitting room, the drawing room, and the stamp room where Mr. Button had an impressive collection of stamps—not postage stamps, but things he had stamped on with his shoes.
Mr. Fuddlebee’s onbrella always buzzed and he always brought the handle before his ghostly spectacles to study its important readouts.
“Curious. Very curious indeed.”
He floated upstairs to the next floor.
There were only two floors to the house. The second floor had all the bedrooms. There was Mr. and Mrs. Button’s main bedroom. After that there was Mr. Button’s second and third bedroom across the hall from Mrs. Button’s second, third, and fourth bedrooms. She had one extra because she had extra hats.
The three Button children had one room. They shared their space equally and kindly.
The nanny used to sleep in the linen closet.
Bernard dashed to his side of the room, put on his knightly helmet, and took his knightly sword in hand, even though his knightly helmet was a toy space helmet he had gotten as a gift one year, and his sword was a mop handle that Mrs. Button broke off when she thought the mop head would make a lovely looking wig. But in Bernard’s imagination, his helmet and sword were just as real as the knightliest of knightly weaponry.
Beatrice went to her side of the room and put on her favorite bookbag. She had several to choose from, and each had a different purpose. The blue one was for school. The yellow one was for the library. The green one was for going to Audubon Park and reading books under the shade of cool trees. But now she got the red one. She had been saving it for a special occasion. Inside was a compass, measuring tape, a calculator, extra shoelaces, tea and mugs, a book on gravity, and A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, which she read all the time, even in the middle of summer, because it was her favorite book.
Berkeley toddled over to his side of the room where there was a closet full of toys. They were all neatly organized on the shelves. He used the power of his mind to make them float off the shelves and land in a chaotic mess on the floor. Then he played in the mess happily.
Mr. Fuddlebee went up and down the second floor hall, pointing his onbrella at everything he saw—at photographs on the walls, at a mousehole in the baseboards, at bunches of flowers on a table, at a grandfather clock. Always his onbrella made busy buzzing sounds, always he studied readouts on the handle, and always he muttered to himself, “Curious.”
He pointed his onbrella inside Mr. and Mrs. Button’s several bedrooms. It buzzed and he studied the readouts. And the only thing he said about them was, “No, not so very curious at all.”
Next he came into the bedroom of the three Button children. His onbrella had been by his side, not even pointed at anything, yet as soon as he entered it began buzzing like mad! He brought the handle close to his ghostly eyes and studied its readouts.
“How very, very, very curious!”
“What’s so curious?” Bernard asked, adjusting his helmet.
Mr. Fuddlebee pointed his onbrella at their closet.
“Tell me, where does that lead?”
The closet door was wide open. It had only clothes, shoes, puzzles, and toys.
Beatrice tightened the straps of her bookbag.
“It doesn’t lead anywhere,” she answered.
Mr. Fuddlebee stroked his ghostly goatee thoughtfully.
“Are you absolutely certain this is only a closet?” he asked them.
“Of course,” said Bernard. “Where else would it go to?”
“Have you ever seen any stairs inside it?” the elderly ghost inquired.
“Stairs?” asked Beatrice, perplexed.
“Yes, stairs going down. I am of course referring to stairs on the inside of the inside of your house. Ever seen any of those?”
The Button children had no idea what he was talking about.
Mr. Fuddlebee closed the closet door with his onbrella.
The door wobbled.
“Is it supposed to do that?” Bernard asked.
“Not usually,” Mr. Fuddlebee replied, “although sometimes they have been known to giggle for no reason.”
He studied the closed closet door with his onbrella.
“This is perhaps the most—”
“—curious?” suggested Beatrice.
“Actually,” the elderly ghost answered, “I was going to say that this is the most mischievous door I have seen in a long time.”
Bernard and Beatrice saw nothing unusual about it. It was the same door they had seen since they could remember.
“Has this door ever misbehaved?” asked Mr. Fuddlebee.
“Not that I know of,” Beatrice said, “but Bernard was locked in the closet when he misbehaved.”
“Hey,” Bernard protested. “I haven’t been sent there since I was younger than you. And since then I’ve always been a model of good behavior. After all, someone’s got to teach you two children how the real world expects us to be.”
“My dear boy,” the elderly ghost said to him, “the real world expects you to be someone you are not. Be who you are and you will surprise the world every day.”
He knocked on the door with the tip of his onbrella.
“Now, let’s see why this door is refusing to act like other doors.”
CHAPTER NINE
Gates the Zombie Cyber Girl
His knocks went unanswered.
So Mr. Fuddlebee tapped on the closet door with his onbrella a second time.
Bernard and Beatrice were not sure what was about to happen.
Berkeley clapped his hands, hoping Mr. Fuddlebee would shoot fireworks from his onbrella again.
The elderly ghost spoke in a clear voice to someone on the other side.
“Pardon me. This is an agent of SPOOK. I do hope you will open at once or else I might have to use more forceful means. Have you ever seen a door opened by an onbrella? It is not a pretty sight, I can assure you.”
The Button children wondered who the elderly ghost was talking to.
“Mr. Fuddlebee,” Beatrice said in a kind tone, “you do realize you’re speaking with a closet.”
“I am talking to a door,” he replied. “There is a difference, you know.”
“I know that there is no one on the other side of it,” Bernard said.
“Not yet,” Mr. Fuddlebee answered before leaning closer to the door and raising his voice. “Whoever this might be, I advise you to open soon. The day is still young and there are many odd and odious kerfuffles to deal with, some much more kerfuffley than yours.”
Bernard and Beatrice were about to argue, but they stared in wonder when they heard noises through the door. It sounded like banging at first. Then they realized it was the stomp of feet coming up stairs.
Mr. Fuddlebee brushed off his ghostly suit. He straightened his bow tie and adjusted his bowler hat.
“Always be sure to make a good first impression,” he said to the Button children.
The door opened like a revolving door, like the kind you might see at a fancy hotel. It spun around and around from the middle, and out came another child.
She looked like a nine-year-old girl, about the same age as Bernard. But her skin was as white as a china doll. Her mouth was black, dry, and shriveled—like a raisin in the sun. Her hair was wavy and black. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken inward like a mummy and as blue as ice.
The rest of her was mechanical. She had mechanical eyes; mechanical shoulders, arms and legs; and mechanical chest, hands and feet. And she was covered all over in strange gadgets. One looked like a satellite dish. Another looked like a music box. Several looked like gears and switches and levers. Most were blinking different colored lights. Some were zapping with electricity. And one or two were gushing out steam.
Bernard, Beatrice, and Berkeley gaped at her. They could not believe that this girl was living in their house too!
“Hello, my dear.” Mr. Fuddlebee smiled with a kind tone in his voice, not at all surprised to see her. “Could you tell me what time the train departs the hollow for Welkin City?”
This remark stunned the children. They had no idea what it meant. Yet before they could inquire about it, the pale girl started talking in a way that stupefied them even more.
“Zero one zero zero one one zero one zero one one one one zero zero one—”
“What does that mean?” Bernard asked his sister.
“You’ll never know unless you let her finish,” Mr. Fuddlebee answered. “She was just getting to the good part.”
“Finish?” Beatrice said. “It didn’t sound like she had begun.”
The elderly ghost beamed politely at the pale girl.
“Forgive us, my dear. Please continue.”
The girl blinked at him as stiffly as a robot. Then she went on saying, “Zero zero one zero zero zero zero zero zero one one zero one one one zero…”
“How long will this take?” Bernard wondered aloud.
“I’m afraid it will take quite a while,” Mr. Fuddlebee answered. “She had only said, ‘My name,’ when you interrupted her.”
“She said your name, Mr. Fuddlebee?” asked Beatrice.
“Not quite,” he explained. “She literally said those two words—‘my’ and ‘name.’ I have a feeling her next word might be ‘is,’ which will no doubt lead to her actual name. I do not know about you, but I am on pins and needles waiting to find out.”
He had a twinkle of excitement in his ghostly eyes.
Bernard leaned closer to Beatrice. “Do you understand what they’re talking about?”
“She’s like a computer,” Beatrice said, realizing a little more. “She’s talking in the basic code of computer languages. Ones and zeros. It’s called binary. I read about it in kindergarten.”
“That is correct, my dear,” Mr. Fuddlebee said. “If you like I can translate for you, although my binary is as rusty as my banshee. Screaming at the top of my lungs is no longer my forte, but ones and zeros I can manage.”
“Mr. Fuddlebee,” Beatrice said, “you said your onbrella is a computer too, with its own operating system.”
“Correct again,” the elderly ghost said delightedly. “It is the Dimensionally Intelligent Operating System, otherwise known as DIOS. I’m so tickled you remembered.”
“If this girl is a computer too,” Beatrice suggested, “couldn’t you just upgrade her software?”
Mr. Fuddlebee thought about this.
“Perhaps,” he said at length. “Though technically she is not a computer. She is a cyborg. And technically she is not quite a cyborg as much as she is a zombie.”
“A ZOMBIE!” Bernard and Beatrice cried out, suddenly fearful of being eaten alive.
“Oh, do not be afraid,” Mr. Fuddlebee said, pointing his onbrella at the other girl. It buzzed and he studied its readouts. “She is not the mindless kind. Her mind has a microchip that makes her quite intelligent. I seldom see her kind; this is a rare treat! Count yourselves fortunate, children. She is a cyber zombie. You might call her a cybombie for short, though she may not like that.”
“A CYBOMBIE!” Bernard and Beatrice chorused again in fright.
“Oh, my dear children,” Mr. Fuddlebee said in a calming tone, “try not to judge what you see on the outside. There is something much deeper at work in her.”
Berkeley toddled over to the zombie cyber girl and held out his hands. She picked him up and held him with such affection that you might have thought they were brother and sister too. She tickled him and laughed in a robotic voice when she heard him giggle.
Bernard and Beatrice timidly stepped closer to her.
“I’m Bernard,” he said in a cautious tone.
“And I’m Beatrice,” his sister said next. She pointed to her younger brother. “And this is Berkeley.”
The zombie cyber girl smiled kindly at them. “Zero one zero zero—” she started to say when Mr. Fuddlebee stopped her.
“Perhaps I can help.”
He pointed his onbrella at her. It made more buzzing sounds. Then he studied the handle’s readouts and smiled with satisfaction.
“There,” he said, “I’ve transferred the DIOS into her processors. The new operating system should start to work any second now.”
The zombie cyber girl tilted her head in confusion. Then her eyes went dead and her whole body slumped forward as her power shut down.
Berkeley dropped from her lifeless arms, but Bernard’s fast reflexes caught him. Berkeley loved it and wanted to be dropped and caught again and again.
“What just happened?” Beatrice asked, staring at the other girl.
“Not to worry,” the ghost answered brightly. “She is just about to restart.”
Right at that moment, a chime came from somewhere inside the zombie cyber girl. Fans whirred, gears spun, and little pops of electricity snapped and crackled through her circuits. Her eyes fluttered with renewed life. She straightened up. Her robotic arms and legs started moving again. She stared at the elderly ghost in wide-eyed wonderment.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Mr. Fuddlebee encouraged her.
“Go on. Tell us your name.”
She had great difficulty saying the first word. “M—M—My—”
“You can do it,” the elderly ghost continued encouraging in his excitement.
“My n—n—name…is…G—Ga—”
“Yes, my dear? Your name is what?”
“Gates.”
CHAPTER TEN
The Goblin Diner
Mr. Fuddlebee beamed at Gates the zombie cyber girl.
“You did very well,” he congratulated.
Her sunken cheeks blushed a darker shade of blue.
“How long have you lived here?” Bernard asked.
“I—” she struggled to say, “I—I have—”
“Where did you come from?” asked Beatrice.
“I—” she continued struggling to say, “I—I come from—”
She pressed a few buttons on a panel on her mechanical arm. Her mouth moved with a little more freedom, yet she still worked hard to speak.
“I come from under your house,” she said at last.
“I have a better question,” Mr. Fuddlebee said to the children. “What time is it?”
Beatrice looked at her watch. “Midmorning.”
“Oh dear me,” the elderly ghost said. “Teatime!”
He pointed his onbrella at the closet door nearby. It made another buzzing sound. Next he bent low and spoke into the keyhole.
“Chai tea with maple syrup, please,” he said, “and one honey milk.”
He smiled at the others. Bernard and Beatrice were confused. Berkeley was using his power to make a small satellite dish on Gates’s shoulder spin around. She showed no emotion; it was difficult to tell if she was bored or happy.
The two older Button children were about to speak when a voice came from the other side of the door. It was deep and gravelly.
“How many?”
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Fuddlebee, counting the others with his ghostly finger, “three mortal children, one zombie cyber girl, and one ghost.”
“Is the ghost a senior?”
Mr. Fuddlebee’s cheeks blushed a deeper shade of green.
“Why, yes, he is,” he admitted bashfully though quickly adding, “although I am only a few hundred years old. Quite young
compared with most other ghosts, you know.”
The three Button children had opened that closet door countless times. They knew everything inside, every shirt, every pair of pants, all pairs of shoes, all toys, everything. They had never seen or heard anything else in there before.
So they were totally dumbfounded when a squat, scruffy-looking goblin opened the closet door and waddled out. He was dressed like a waiter, wearing a white apron and a rag over his shoulder. He had dark green skin with a wrinkly face and black stubble on his chin. In his hands was a silver tea tray with four cups of tea, a small carton of honey milk, a bottle of maple syrup, and a set of enchanted teaspoons.
The inside of the closet was not there anymore. In its place was a long hallway that led to a goblin diner.
In the goblin diner were goblin waiters and waitresses taking orders and serving food. Goblin cooks were in a kitchen cooking fried eggs and buttered mashed potatoes. And bus goblins were busing tables. And sitting at the tables were all sorts of Mystical Creatures. There were vampires at a table having Bloody Marys. There were fairies at another table having fairy toast. There were robots at another table having cups of warm oil with cream and sugar. There were zombies and brownies, witches and will-o'-the-wisps, boggarts and manticores and nightmarchers. It looked like they were all eating a late breakfast.
Beatrice gasped.
“Are all those creatures living in our house too?”
“Oh, not at all,” Mr. Fuddlebee answered, watching the goblin waiter carry the tea tray into the middle of the hall. “I’ll explain more momentarily. Let’s settle the bill first.”
The goblin waiter pressed a button on the tea tray and four legs extended, turning the tray into a tea table.
“This is on the house,” he said in his gravelly voice, though he did not seem pleased by it, “by orders of Good the Goblin Queen. She says you get to have free goblin tea whenever you like.”
The elderly ghost chuckled.
“Well, I shall have to express my gratitude to her the next time I’m in her Goblin Kingdom.”
