Neither Rat-Elmo nor Elmo TL3 had paid any attention to it before, but nestled on a small sofa near Gum's attic window was a small tablet showing a live newscast. Endless reports came and went; events, disasters, achievements, failures; the sound was barely audible over the ensuing dialogue, but when given a chance, snippets could be gleaned. During one lull in the vocal exchange, Elmo found himself drawn by the voice of the reporter:

  “…the alarming increase in the condition has medical experts baffled…”

  “Do you know what these lines show?” Gum’s voice avalanched over the report.

  Elmo was in no mood to play guess-the-nut-job’s hobby, but the only way to get out of this lunatic’s lair was to, at least, fake interest in his wacky, latticed web of random rope trails. His hand still stung, despite the dressing ‘Hev’ had applied, and he was fighting an urge to fling himself out of the window. He had no idea what had happened to Gum. He knew he was ‘going through some stuff’ - Roan had said he was becoming progressively more reclusive in recent months, letting his hair grow and doing his own dentistry - but this whole scenario seemed too excessive.

  Elmo's mind was fending off enough threats right now as it was; Gum’s insane, aggressive interrogation; the oppressive mosaic of random rubbish squeezing him into the limited space of this attic asylum; the Rottweiler, sat like a grinning sphinx, blocking the door; and now, as if all that were not enough, the wretched rat was actually beginning to get pulled into the vortex of Gum’s paranoiac plots. “Well? Do you?” Gum pressed?

  “Places you’ve been on holiday?” Elmo mumbled with limp sarcasm, lacking the conviction that he would have loved to put into it, but he did not quite trust his host - he had no idea how he would respond to direct mockery. He winced, preparing for a burst of violent reprisals.

  In the pause of a thousand lifetimes, ethereal voices filled in:

  “…previously only 40-50 cases are known throughout the world…”

  “Most of the strings appear to end in references to certain places…” threw in Rat-Elmo, desperate to misdirect Gum’s attention away from Elmo’s suicidal scorn.

  Rat-Elmo could not help being sucked in by the forces of intrigue that this whole environment oozed. He’d had quite a bit of time to take it all in before Elmo had been escorted back to the room after his attempted escape. He was almost certain that he could spot regularities amidst the chaos that assaulted them.

  Several maps appeared to be purposefully spaced between specific articles, cut from various newspapers and journals. Pinned to a large rotating dry-wipe board that dominated the far corner by the window, was a complete map of the world, most of which was draped with sheets of scrawled-on paper.

  One page in particular had distracted him sufficiently to waste a few cautious seconds; it portrayed a large wedding cake with protruding hands at regular intervals on each tier; he wondered if it were a sketch of some ancient city: he knew that Gum loved his history. From what he could see of the world-map hiding under the drafts of the antique cake-city, Gum had drawn thick, red lines connecting, apparently, random countries to a date, written on the edge of the board in equally thick marker. He was then struck, full in his fuzzy-face, with the sudden recognition that the countries on the map, and the connected dates were all associated with the scattered articles on the walls: he had a queasy feeling as the increasing tug of conspiracy drew him closer towards the event horizon of Gum’s insanity.

  Again, a huge, awkward pause: “...this will be the fifth recorded case this year in Europe alone…”

  Gum stared at Elmo, apparently processing his remark, and quite possibly considering whether he would take the issue into his own hands, or just leave the dog to administer the necessary. It was quite possible however, that he was concentrating on something entirely different altogether.

  “…considering that there have only been approximately one hundred recorded cases identified throughout history.”

  Gum’s attention finally returned to those before him: “Fridge door for that - gotta love those little magnets - if there’s any space among Hev’s info-dump of directions.” His response to Elmo was accompanied with a dismissive flick of his left hand, which in turn, was embellished with an intricate little dance of his fingers; he looked like he was trying to sprinkle some unseen herb over Elmo’s head. Elmo, for his part, could not help but cautiously turn to look in the direction of the epileptic digits. Gum, however, then turned full-focus on the Rat.

  “Excellent! Tremendous job! Did you sniff that detail out with that exceptional proboscis of yours Mr. Whiskers?”

  “Er… yeah!” Rat-Elmo was not sure if he liked that nickname, and hoped that Elmo had not heard it. “It all looks quite clear to me, actually, although I have no idea why!”

  “Ah!” Gum dropped his tone to almost a whisper, and waved a forefinger towards the rat. He leaned in closer, stopping, his face just inches from Rat-Elmo’s snout: “Ay, there's the rub.” His face was square with Rat-Elmo, but he swivelled his eyes across to the left, then out to the window, and then came alarmingly close to succeeding in an attempt to spin them right round behind himself: they snapped back to the front, wide and hypnotic: “Somebody has been stealing time. And this is a map of their thievery.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  *****

  Mist stepped down into the pool enclosure, enjoying the serenity of the place; it was beautiful. A vaulted ceiling hung above the covered half of the pool, flickering firelight bathing the masonry in rich amber. At the other end, golden sunshine streamed though the stone archway, the open air alive with bird song. Mist knew without touching it that the water would be comfortably warm and not too deep. She imagined herself floating lazily in the pool. She couldn’t have imagined a more appealing spot. She sat for a moment by the edge of the water enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin.

  Mist closed her eyes, allowing the song of the red birds flitting in the sunshine to lull her into deeper and deeper tranquillity. Somewhere far-off, the toll of a swinging bell wove among the liquid notes as waves of delicate dandelion seeds swept past in the air. A voice inside Mist's head breathed, "Dreams within dreams." Mist let its bright, vaporous sound sweep around her thoughts.

  Then, with a jolt, the pool was gone. The old house that she had come from was before her, looming against a grey sky. Where was the sunshine? If all this was another dream wouldn't there be shoes, or bags? She backed up, noticing that the path under her feet was an uneven walkway of angled planks over stagnant pools. She pulled a face. “I'm not going back in that eerie old place again.”

  The unpleasant memory of musty corridors leading back to the mirror made her shudder, but worse than that was the realisation that somehow the house was back in front of her again. She spun round in consternation, but the world seemed to spin with her. Puzzlingly, the house was again directly ahead. However, her puzzlement over the house’s location was soon eclipsed by a dark shape sitting atop the roof. A great gargoyle form, crouched on the crumbling brickwork, caught her eye when its membraned wing moved.

  The thing fell into the air and arced round, heaving through the sky on impossibly tattered wings. With a gasp, Mist turned to run, but the world dizzyingly turned with her. She dashed along the fractured walkway, expecting to crash through a weak plank with every step. A shoe flew off and hearing the whoosh of wings Mist despaired, knowing that she'd never get away in time.

  “Stop!” she screamed, twisting round in an attempt to evade the terrifying creature, yet, again as she did, the world seemed to twist with her, tumbling Mist onto the broken boards, fighting not to drop into the brown water and tangled reeds beneath. Momentarily, though, the creature did stop, its purple-brown bulk hanging in the air, fleshy wings swinging fore and back. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Mist cried again at the leering brute peering down at her. It looked puzzled, its ridged and grooved face twitching.

  “Just go away! Disappear!” she pleaded flinging up an arm to hide the sight of the attack that was sure to come. When it didn't, she looked up in time to see the monster's back erupt into an effervescent spray that lifted into the air, its wings dissipating as if blown by the wind. Not just the gargoyle though, the sky above too was foaming, separating into big round bubbles. What was happening? Was she waking? Had she fallen into the pool? Was she drowning?

  “Pool of tears,” Mist thought, feeling she'd heard that before. Everything now - the house, the boardwalk, the marsh - was evaporating into emptiness. Something felt broken. Mist gasped for breath as the world blew away, replaced by a dimensionless, featureless grey that extended fog-like in every direction. This didn't feel like any kind of dream anymore.

  Looming from what might have been below, or above, an object like a metallic rugby ball shattered the infinite nothingness into tiny pieces, the shards forming into feather-like filaments festooning the expanse like a ticker-tape parade of ash. As Mist blinked, after-images flashed into her mind’s eye, flickering too quickly to hold on to: a great wall, a bull, a sea of shoes, suffocating blackness. Silence so complete she could feel it pressing into her.

  *****

  After Gum disappeared, Roan walked about the sitting room wringing his hands, then he sat in contemplation, struggling with the impossibilities. He was supposed to believe that Mist was - was what? All he had was some vague promise. He would call an ambulance. He stood to take his mobile phone from his pocket and, as he did, he saw it, in the shadows: a round metallic device. Picking it up, Roan held the object in both hands, falling deeper into contemplation.

  This surely was the very thing that Elmo had talked about, drawn pictures of. Why was it here? Was it affecting his friends? More importantly, had it done something to his wife? Of course not. Mist was… sleeping? What was this thing though?

  A faint light appeared within the device at this thought, glowing softly through a small spot on the side. Roan stared at it, turning it over to get a better view of the illuminated spot. What was it?

  The glow intensified as if the thing responded to his touch. Roan raised the device to his eye, wondering if he might see inside. Where did it come from? Who could make a thing like this? Abruptly, the light within flashed bright and sharp, shooting out an effulgent beam that blasted his retina, causing him to reel backwards and the room around him to swirl and become transparent.

  Before he could think, the world seemed to shoot into motion, the television imploded and Roan saw Mist flowing like liquid through the shattered screen. He wanted to call out, to reach for her, yet he knew that to be pointless; this was a vision, surely.

  Next, he saw Mist struggling with the bedroom door, trying to prevent something from getting through. The door changed, became a wardrobe, Mist stepping out holding the round device, placing it on her dressing table.

  Everything was receding backwards; now, Mist lost in darkness, facing a huge figure. Was it Gum? No. The vision followed the Gum-like creature, draining backward before pouring into a grassy landscape near a large, walled city, the device here falling from the sky, about to crash onto the Gum look-alike's head.

  Faster, then, things blurring one into another, Elmo, knocking the device off a table somewhere, then standing in a wood at night, then there were many Elmos. It was all coming and going so quickly, Roan felt sick.

  A glimpse of Gum, a frantic rat, another woodland - then a dizzying lurch that felt like a vast journey compressed into an instant flung Roan from his feet, leaving him prostrate, breathless on a cold stone floor, somewhere...

  When Roan recovered his senses, he realised his face was level with a pair of feet. Feeling nauseous, he dragged himself into a kneeling position and looked up, trying to focus on the face above.

  “Who?” was all he could manage. The face swimming into focus was hidden behind a leather mask with a huge brass-tipped beak and brass-rimmed lenses. “It happened! It came! It came!” The voice was that of an elderly man who was almost dancing with delight.

  “Where am I? Who are you?” Roan forced the words out.

  The man dressed like a Middle Eastern plague doctor replied, “Ah, me, yes - ah - I'm Signor Rimgumbaldy, perhaps you've heard of me, no? And you - you have come from the London! Yes?”