Windle dropped the mysterious objects back into the hole and looked around. The room was empty, but there seemed to be a shadow behind the open door.
“Hallo?” he said.
A deep, rumbling, but very diffident voice said, “’S’only me, Mr. Poons.”
Windle wrinkled his forehead with the effort of recollection.
“Schleppel?” he said.
“That’s right.”
“The bogeyman?”
“That’s right?”
“Behind my door?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“It’s a friendly door.”
Windle walked over to the door and gingerly shut it. There was nothing behind it but old plaster, although he did fancy that he felt an air movement.
“I’m under the bed now, Mr. Poons,” said Schleppel’s voice from, yes, under the bed. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Well, no. I suppose not. But shouldn’t you be in a closet somewhere? That’s where bogeymen used to hide when I was a lad.”
“A good closet is hard to find, Mr. Poons.”
Windle sighed. “All right. The underside of the bed’s yours. Make yourself at home, or whatever.”
“I’d prefer going back to lurking behind the door, Mr. Poons, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, all right.”
“Do you mind shutting your eyes a moment?”
Windle obediently shut his eyes.
There was another movement of air.
“You can look now, Mr. Poons.”
Windle opened his eyes.
“Gosh,” said Schleppel’s voice, “you’ve even got a coat hook and everything behind here.”
Windle watched the brass knobs on the end of his bedstead unscrew themselves.
A tremor shook the floor.
“What’s going on, Schleppel?” he said.
“Build up of life force, Mr. Poons.”
“You mean you know?”