Gustav Gloom and the Four Terrors

by Adam-Troy Castro

  The girls, who had left their separate rooms within thirty seconds of his departure and had stationed themselves at the living room window to keep an eye out for his return, were watching when he got out of his car, and therefore witnessed what had to be the most exasperating part of his day: a confrontation with their neighbor Mrs. Adele Everwiner, who had seen the damage to her lawn and wanted to give him a piece of her mind.

  Mrs. Everwiner spent so much of her life giving people a piece of her mind that it was a small miracle she had any pieces left.

  When the mostly round Mrs. Everwiner confronted the stick-thin Mr. What, the argument looked like the number 0 trying to frighten the number 1. She was carrying her nasty little dog, Snooks 5, and wearing one of her more colorful outfits, a frock exactly the same shade of green that comes out of a runny nose, behind a pattern of aggressively yellow sunflowers. Whenever she waved her arms at him, which she did a lot, the design looked like a windstorm wreaking havoc in a meadow.

  For a while Mr. What seemed to get out only a word at a time, every thirty seconds or so. Then he seemed to gain control of the conversation and said quite a bit, all at once, his eyebrows knitting together in the way they did on the rare occasions when he was angry. He pointed at her, not just once but three times. She reared back each time, as if expecting a mouth at the end of that finger to open up like the jaws of a poisonous snake and bite her.

  Whatever he wound up with for his big finish was so devastating that she threw her head back and marched away, her perfect cone of scarlet hair pointing into the air like a big loaf of French bread sticking out of a grocery bag.

  Fernie and Pearlie ran back to their rooms and were both where their father had told them they had better be when he got back. This, as far as they were concerned, amounted to obeying him, since he had told them, “You’d better be in your rooms when I get back” and not “You’d better stay in your rooms until I get back,” which is a different instruction entirely.

  The door slammed. “Fernie! Pearlie! You get into the living room now!”

  In a flash the girls appeared before him, leading Harrington, who liked to be involved in all family discussions.

  Mr. What held on to his angry face for only a couple of seconds before his expression softened and he collapsed onto the living room couch, looking defeated. Without a word, the girls sat on either side of him, each taking one of his hands and resting a head on one of his shoulders.

  “You know,” he said after a few seconds, “there’s a good reason I’ve never let you go on any of your mother’s expeditions.”

  Mrs. What was a famous adventurer who was usually off filming TV specials of her doing things like skiing down sheer cliffs.

  “You think they’re too dangerous for us,” Pearlie said.

  Mr. What surprised them both. “No, that’s not it. It’s not that I don’t think you’d enjoy swimming with crocodiles or kayaking over waterfalls; it’s that I never thought there was much point to letting you take such crazy risks unless I first taught you how to stay safe, so you had something to compare it to.”

  “You mean you’d be okay with us going on an adventure with Mom?”

  “I’m going to put that day off as long as I can,” he said sadly, “but I know I won’t be able to control everything you do forever. You both take after your mom so much more than you take after me, and you’ll be out having adventures soon enough. Maybe if you were both big old scaredy-cats like me, hiding from every danger that came along, I’d feel better about you two living across the street from the Gloom house. But you’re both risk takers, and I can’t be sure that you’ll always stay out of danger if you have a choice. We have to sell the house.”

  The girls recognized that their father had as difficult a problem as their own.

  Then Fernie realized something. “Dad? If you’re right about that, wouldn’t living here be just as dangerous to anybody else who moved in?”

  Mr. What smiled slightly, the way all fathers do when their children ask naive questions. He opened his mouth to provide her with the benefits of his parental wisdom, and then shut it just as quickly, his confident smile fading.

  “If you really think living across the street from the Gloom house is too dangerous,” she continued, “then how is it okay to let another family think it’s safe?”

  Mr. What’s look of chagrin was now a grimace, drawing a straight line from one side of his mouth to the other. “I . . . don’t know.”

  “It’s even worse coming from you than it would be from almost anybody else who sold the house, because you’re such a world-famous safety expert. People expect you to tell the truth about what’s safe and what’s not. You can’t sell a house to somebody else if you think it’s too dangerous to live in. You just can’t.”

  Some successful arguments are like heavy meals, filling you up so completely that you barely have enough energy to move. Fernie’s argument had precisely this effect on Mr. What.

  Clinging to his other arm, Pearlie suggested, “Fernie, maybe you should tell him the other part.”

  It wasn’t the right time yet, according to Fernie’s calculations, especially not with Mr. What turning pale at the very thought of his day choosing this moment to get even more complicated.

  Almost afraid, he said, “What? Why? What else have you done?”

  Fernie had spent the last few hours trying to figure out how to trick her dad into agreeing to meet with Gustav . . . but realized now that she’d failed to consider just telling him the truth. “Gustav said he wanted to talk to you about something.”

  All the fear went out of Mr. What’s face at once, now that he had a simple problem he knew how to deal with. “When did he say that?”

  “Just before you came home earlier this afternoon.”

  Mr. What jumped to his feet right away. “And you waited this long to tell me? Girls, that was rude. We’d better go and see what he needs.”

  It was that simple. Mr. What may have had a problem with Gustav’s house, but he had never had a problem with Gustav himself. He’d said many times that he liked Gustav.

  Mr. What led his daughters out the front door of the What house and across the street to the Gloom estate. Fernie thought that he would abide by the same restrictions he’d declared for the girls and not advance any farther than the iron fence, but instead he opened the gate and marched through like any general leading a charge against enemy lines. By the time he knocked on the house’s giant front doors—the same seven knocks he always used on doors, that went along with a nursery chant about a shave and a haircut—the girls were both a little ashamed of how completely they’d underestimated him.

  When the door opened, Fernie expected to see one of the shadows she knew, like Mr. Notes or Great-Aunt Mellifluous, but instead saw a hulking gray figure in a black tuxedo. His face was covered in little spots identical to those the girls had sprouted during their bad week with chicken pox. The long entrance hallway, lined with portraits and vases, stretched far behind him, the long red carpet runner extending all the way to the cavernous grand parlor at the house’s center.

  “Yes?” he intoned.

  Mr. What stepped back. “I didn’t know this house had a butler.”

  “A fine house this would be,” the shadow replied disdainfully, “without a butler.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. What said. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. We’ve never met you before. I’m Mr. What. I live across the street. These are my daughters, Pearlie and Fernie. We’re friends of Gustav.”

  “None of this is information I need to have,” said the shadow butler. “Is that all?”

  “Why, no. We’d like to see Gustav, if he’s available.”

  “Seeing the boy if he was not available,” the shadow butler droned, “would be an even more impressive trick, would it not?”

  Mr. What chuckled nervously. “Yes, that’s a good point. But we’d still like to see Gustav.”

  The shadow butler nodded. “Please stay here.”r />
  He closed the door.

  They waited a long time.

  After a few minutes, time started crawling, and the girls began shifting their weight from one side to the other.

  “This is ridiculous,” Pearlie contributed.

  “We can’t be sure of that,” Mr. What said. “These people may not keep regular hours. Maybe they’re all in bed or something.”

  “I don’t think they sleep,” said Fernie. “I don’t think even Gustav sleeps.”

  “Come on,” Pearlie protested. “He has to.”

  “I don’t know,” Fernie said, “but he always seems to be dressed up in that little black suit of his at all hours of the day or night. I came here long after midnight that first time and spent the whole night the second time, and I didn’t seem to be interrupting his bedtime at all.”

  “I could use the same argument,” Pearlie pointed out, “to prove that you don’t sleep, either.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Mr. What mourned, “from the two girls who woke me up at four A.M. a couple of months ago by having a game of tag in my living room. I don’t think any of you kids need sleep.”

  Several minutes passed. The impatient sighs from the What girls began to overwhelm the time between sighs.

  Mr. What announced, “I know it’s a big house, but if he’s not back in another minute or so, I’m going to knock again.”

  That minute passed, exactly like the ones before it.

  Mr. What knocked again, using the same shave-and-a-haircut rhythm.

  The door opened a second time, revealing the same cold, contemptuous figure. He rolled his eyes in contempt when he saw the Whats still on the front stoop, waiting for him. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. What began, “but we were beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”

  “I wasn’t,” the shadow butler said.

  “But you told us to wait—”

  “No, I did not. I told you to stay there. That is not the same thing as promising to carry your message or come back with that intolerable boy, neither of which I intend to do unless I’m specifically ordered to. Otherwise, it’s just something I said to keep you satisfied while I did neither of those things. Would you still like me to go get Gustav?”

  Before Fernie or Pearlie could stop him, Mr. What said, “Yes, please.”

  “Fine,” the shadow butler said. “Stay here.”

  He closed the door on them again.

  The girls cried, “Daddy!”

  “I know,” Mr. What said with chagrin. “I hope they don’t pay him much.”

  He knocked on the door yet again with the shave-and-a-haircut refrain.

  The door opened a third time, the unhelpful shadow butler with the spotted face looking even more displeased to see them. “Don’t you know any other tunes?”

  “Please,” Mr. What said firmly. “I’m ordering you to find Gustav and bring him to the front door, now.”

  The shadow butler’s superior sneer fell. “I’ll be right back, sir.”

  He closed the door again.

  The Whats half expected another lengthy delay, probably without Gustav at the end of it, but this time the door reopened an instant later.

  That instant couldn’t have been enough time for the scornful butler to travel down the length of the long hallway, let alone to any of the farther regions of the house, and return with Gustav in tow, but here he was now, escorting Gustav Gloom.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MR. WHAT HAS EMERGENCY PROCEDURES FOR BEING ATTACKED BY LOBSTERS

  The expression on the shadow butler’s spotty face was as venomous as a crate filled with snakes.

  “The What family,” he announced, his every word establishing that he considered this duty beneath him. “Young Master Gloom. Is there anything else you would like me to do, sir?”

  Gustav didn’t seem nearly as out of breath as he should have been after arriving in such a hurry. “Yes.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” the shadow butler said, just before aiming his nose in the air and striding off with the air of a man whose home has just been sprayed by a skunk.

  Mr. What peered after him in dismay. “What’s his problem?”

  “Him?” Gustav seemed surprised that Mr. What would even bother to ask. “That’s just Hives. He’s our terrible butler.”

  Pearlie asked, “Why would you let him work for you if he’s such a terrible butler?”

  “I think you misunderstand,” Gustav said. “He’s not a butler who happens to be terrible, but a terrible butler.”

  She gaped. “You mean, being terrible is his job?”

  “Yes. He’s usually stationed at the door to a room nobody ever uses, so there are never any visitors he can fail to announce, but tonight I ordered him to watch the door in case you came over.”

  Fernie took Gustav’s explanation the same way she took most revelations about the Gloom house: with a sputtering indignation that strained her ability to speak. “Why would you even want a terrible butler?”

  “My grandpa Lemuel believed that having a terrible butler was better than having a good one. He said that most people with good butlers become boring, because everything is done for them. But people with terrible butlers always have to figure out how to do things for themselves.”

  “Well, if that’s what you want,” Fernie reasoned, “wouldn’t it make more sense to just not have a butler of any kind?”

  “I don’t think Grandpa ever thought of that.”

  Fernie was sputtering again when Mr. What, who’d followed all this with what looked like deep amusement, prodded Gustav: “Gustav, you told the girls you wanted to talk to me about something?”

  “Right.” Gustav stepped outside and closed the door. For a moment he looked nervous, like an actor suddenly shoved onstage who forgets all his big lines at the first sight of his audience. Then he gulped. “Mr. What, how much did Fernie tell you about what happened to my father and the woman who would have been my mother?”

  Mr. What’s face softened. “She mentioned that something bad happened to them.”

  Gustav seemed surprised. “Really? She didn’t give you any details?”

  “No. She didn’t say a word.”

  Gustav shook his head. “I’m a little shocked. Normally she talks so much.”

  Fernie’s jaw dropped wide open.

  Pearlie rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’ve been saying all this time. I mean, hello?”

  Fernie stomped her foot. “Hey!”

  Mr. What set a protective hand on Fernie’s shoulder. “You do talk a lot, dear. But she’s also a very smart girl, Gustav. I think she decided that the story belonged to you and wasn’t hers to share with us, unless you gave your permission.”

  Gustav glanced at Fernie, and a brief twitch—not quite a smile, but certainly a look of appreciation—animated the corners of his lips. “Okay. But I don’t think I need to get into it now when I can just give her permission to tell you later.”

  Mr. What nodded warily. “Okay.”

  “My dad is a prisoner somewhere in the Dark Country. I want to help him, but in order for that to happen, I need you to give Fernie permission to come inside with me.”

  Mr. What looked as trapped as any good man would be with one child he cared about begging for help that he could only give by risking a child he cared about even more. “Why does it have to be Fernie?”

  Gustav was unsurprised by the question. “Because there’s somebody inside who knows what I need to know who says that he’ll only talk to her.”

  Mr. What shook his head. “I’m sorry, Gustav, but from what I hear, it’s never that simple inside your house. I can’t allow it.”

  “What if you come with us?”

  This was something Mr. What hadn’t expected. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll put you in charge. If anything we do looks too risky, then all you have to do is say so. I’ll take you back out and never mention it again. But it should be okay. I’ve mapped out
the dullest route possible and won’t take you near anything that should cause us any trouble.”

  Mr. What looked even more trapped now that somebody had just asked him, in front of the daughters he loved, to prove that he was only a careful man and not an actual coward. “But . . .”

  “Mr. What. We’re talking about my father.”

  Fernie said, “Please, Dad.”

  Pearlie added, “You’ve got to. And take me this time. I wanna go.”

  Mr. What might have refused to get on planes or ride on trains. He might have known what kind of shoes had the most slippery soles and cataloged the most useful emergency procedures for fire, burglary, and being attacked by lobsters. His basement may have been well-stocked with emergency provisions that included flare guns and spray cans of tarantula repellent, and asking him to take a risk on anything was like asking a German shepherd to meow. But he was also a man who had loved his own father, and could not reject the request of a boy who only wanted to know his. He finally said, “Gustav, when I was a boy, we had something we called a pinky swear. It was only used in emergencies, when we needed the absolute truth and nothing but the truth. Do you give me your pinky swear that you won’t lead us anywhere dangerous?”

  “You have my pinky swear,” Gustav said.

  The two of them made a big ceremony of linking their little fingers and shaking them, as if this formed the most unbreakable contract ever devised by Man.

  Even so, Mr. What could not resist asking one last question. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely sure. I walked the whole route myself, just now, to be sure. I even installed extra safety railings.”

  Both the What girls burst out laughing.

  Sometimes, only the laughter of children can persuade an adult that he’s being ridiculous. Mr. What reddened and glanced at his girls, who were struggling mightily to bring their hilarity under control. They almost managed to get themselves together, but then made eye contact with each other and exploded with fresh giggles.

  Mr. What tried to look mad, but seemed to have some trouble holding the expression. “Is that true? Did you really go to the trouble of installing extra safety railings, just for my sake?”