coming from the train-room phones.
Everyone on the estate had been assigned a different sound for the line or lines that were dedicated to him or her. Each of Ghost Dad’s lines produced a simple brrrrrrrr. Mrs. McBee’s signature tone was a series of musical chimes. Mr. Truman’s lines played the first nine notes from the theme song of an ancient TV cop show, Dragnet, which was stupid, and Mr. Truman thought so, too, but he endured it.
This highly sophisticated telephone system could produce up to twelve different signature tones. Eight were standard. Four—like Dragnet—could be custom-designed for the client.
Fric had been assigned the dumbest of the standard tones, which the phone manufacturer described as “a cheerful child-pleasing sound suitable for the nursery or the bedrooms of younger children.” Why infants in nurseries or toddlers in cribs ought to have their own telephones remained a mystery to Fric.
Were they going to call Babies R Us and order lobster-flavored teething rings? Maybe they would phone their mommies and say, Yuch. I crapped in my diaper, and it don’t feel good.
Stupid.
Ooodelee-ooodelee-oo, said the train-room phones.
Fric hated the sound. He had hated it when he’d been six, and he hated it even worse now.
Ooodelee-ooodelee-oo.
This was the annoying sound that might be made by some furry, roly-poly, pink, half-bear, half-dog, halfwit character in a video made for preschoolers who thought stupid shows like Teletubbies were the pinnacle of humor and sophistication.
Humiliated even though he was alone, Fric pushed two transformer switches to kill power to the trains, and he answered the phone on the fourth ring. “Bob’s Burger Barn and Cockroach Farm,” he said. “Our special today is salmonella on toast with coleslaw for a buck.”
“Hello, Aelfric,” a man said.
Fric had expected to hear his father’s voice. If instead he had heard the voice of Nominal Mom, he would have suffered cardiac arrest and dropped dead into the train controls.
The entire estate staff, with the possible exception of Chef Hachette, would have mourned for him. They would have been deeply, terribly sad. Deeply, deeply, terribly, terribly. For about forty minutes. Then they would have been busy, busy, busy preparing for the post-funeral gala to which would be invited perhaps a thousand famous and near-famous drunks, druggies, and butt-kissers eager to plant their lips on Ghost Dad’s golden ass.
“Who’s this?” Fric asked.
“Are you enjoying the trains, Fric?”
Fric had never heard this voice before. No one on the staff. Definitely a stranger.
Most of the people in the house didn’t know that Fric was in the train room, and no one outside the estate could possibly know.
“How do you know about the trains?”
The man said, “Oh, I know lots of things other people don’t. Just like you, Fric. Just like you.”
The talented hairs on the back of Fric’s neck did impressions of scurrying spiders.
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know me,” the man said. “When does your father return from Florida?”
“If you know so much, why don’t you tell me?”
“December twenty-fourth. In the early afternoon. Christmas Eve,” the stranger said.
Fric wasn’t impressed. Millions of people knew his old man’s whereabouts and his Christmas plans. Just a week ago, Ghost Dad had done a spot on Entertainment Tonight, talking about the film that he was shooting and about how much he looked forward to going home for the holidays.
“Fric, I’d like to be your friend.”
“What’re you, a pervert?”
Fric had heard about perverts. Heck, he’d probably met hundreds of them. He didn’t know all the things they might do to a kid, and he wasn’t exactly sure what thing they liked most to do, but he knew they were out there with their collections of kids’ eyeballs, wearing necklaces made out of their victims’ bones.
“I have no desire to hurt you,” said the stranger, which was no doubt what any pervert would have said. “Quite the opposite. I want to help you, Fric.”
“Help me do what?”
“Survive.”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t have a name.”
“Everyone has to have a name, even if it’s just one, like Cher or Godzilla.”
“Not me. I’m only one among multitudes, nameless now. There’s trouble coming, young Fric, and you need to be ready for it.”
“What trouble?”
“Do you know of a place in your house where you could hide and never be found?” the stranger asked.
“That’s a weird-ass question.”
“You’re going to need a place to hide where no one can find you, Fric. A deep and special secret place.”
“Hide from who?”
“I can’t tell you that. Let’s just call him the Beast in Yellow. But you’re going to need a secret place real soon.”
Fric knew that he should hang up, that it might be dangerous to play along with this nutball. Most likely he was a pathetic pervert loser who got lucky with a phone number and would sooner or later start with the dirty talk. But the guy might also be a sorcerer who could cast a spell long distance, or he might be an evil psychologist who could hypnotize a boy over the telephone and make him rob liquor stores and then make him turn over all the money while clucking like a chicken.
Aware of those risks and many more, Fric nevertheless stayed on the line. This was by far the most interesting phone conversation he’d ever had.
Just in case this guy with no name happened to be the one from whom he might need to hide, Fric said, “Anyway, I’ve got bodyguards, and they carry submachine guns.”
“That’s not true, Aelfric. Lying won’t get you anything but misery. There’s heavy security on the estate, but it won’t be good enough when the time comes, when the Beast in Yellow shows up.”
“It is true,” Fric deceitfully insisted. “My bodyguards are former Delta Force commandos, and one of them was even Mr. Universe before that. They can for sure kick major ass.”
The stranger didn’t respond.
After a couple seconds, Fric said, “Hello? You there?”
The man spoke in a whisper now. “Seems like I have a visitor, Fric. I’ll call you
