Hogfather

     'There's  people down there, Mister Teatime!' he wheezed. 'Dave and the others've gone down to catch them, Mister Teatime!'

     'Teh-ah-tim-eh,' said Teatime, without taking his eyes off the wizard.

     'That's right, sir!'

     'Well?' said Teatime. 'Just... do away with them.'

     'Er... one of them's a girl, sir.'

     Teatime still didn't look round. He waved a hand vaguely.

     'Then do away with them politely.'

     'Yes, Mister... yes, right...' Chickenwire coughed. 'Don't you  want to find out why they're here, sir?'

     'Good heavens, no. Why should I want to do that? Now go away.'

     Chickenwire stood there for a moment, and then hurried off.

     As he scurried  down  the stairs he thought he heard a  creak, as of an ancient wooden door.

     He went pale.

     It was just a  door, said the sensible bit in front of his brain. There were  hundreds of them in this place, although, come to think of it, none of them had creaked.

     The other  bit, the bit that hung around in  dark places nearly at  the top of his spinal  column, said: But it's not one of  them, and you know it, because you know which door it really is...

     He hadn't heard that creak for thirty years.

     He gave a little yelp and started to take the stairs four at a time.

     In the hollows and corners, the shadows grew darker.

     Susan ran up a flight of stairs, dragging the oh god behind her.

     'Do you know what they've been doing?' she said. 'You know  why they've got all those teeth in a circle? The power... oh my...'

     'I'm not going to,' said the head waiter, firmly.

     'Look, I'll buy you a better pair after Hogswatch ...'

     'There's two more Shoe Pastry, one for Purйe de la Terre and three more Tourte а la Boue,' said a waiter, hurrying in.

     'Mud pies!' moaned the waiter. 'I can't believe we're selling mud pies. And now you want my boots!'

     'With cream and sugar,  mind  you. A real  taste of AnkhMorpork. And we can get at least four helpings off  those boots. Fair's  fair. We're all  in our socks...'

     'Table seven  says the steaks were  lovely  but  a bit  tough,' said  a waiter, rushing past.

     'Right. Use a  larger hammer next time and boil  them for longer.'  The manager turned back to  the suffering  head waiter.  'Look, Bill,'  he said, taking him  by the shoulder. 'This isn't food. No one expects it to be food. If people wanted food they'd stay at home, isn't that so? They come here for ambience.  For  the experience. This isn't  cookery, Bill. This  is cuisine. See? And they're coming back for more.'

     'Yeah, but old boots . . . '

     'Dwarfs  eats rats,'  said the manager. 'And trolls  eat rocks. There's folks  in  Howondaland that  eat  insects  and folks  on  the  Counterweight Continent eat soup made out of bird spit. At least the boots  have been on a cow.'

     'And mud?' said the head waiter, gloomily.

     'Isn't there an old  proverb  that says a man must eat a bushel of dirt before he dies?'

     'Yes, but not all at once.'

     'Bill?' said the manager, kindly, picking up a spatula.

     'Yes, boss?'

     'Get those damn boots off right now, will you?'

     When Chickenwire reached the bottom of  the tower he was trembling, and not just from the effort. He headed straight for the  door until Medium Dave grabbed him.

     'Let me out! It's after me!'

     'Look at his face,' said Catseye. 'Looks like he's seen a ghost!'

     'Yeah, well, it  ain't a ghost,' muttered Chickenwire. 'It's  worse'n a ghost...'

     Medium Dave slapped him across the face.

     'Pull yourself together! Look  around!  Nothing's chasing  you! Anyway, it's not as though we couldn't put up a fight, right?'

     Terror had had  time to drain away a little. Chickenwire looked back up the stairs. There was nothing there.

     'Good,' said Medium Dave, watching his face. 'Now... What happened?'

     Chickenwire looked at his feet.

     'I thought it was the wardrobe,' he muttered. 'Go on, laugh...'

     They didn't laugh.

     'What wardrobe?' said Catseye.

     'Oh, when I was a kid...' Chickenwire  waved his arms  vaguely. 'We had this big ole wardrobe, if you must know. Oak. It had this... this... on  the  door  there was  this... sort of... face.' He looked at  their faces,  which were equally wooden. 'I mean, not an actual face, there was... all this...  decoration  round  the keyhole, sort of flowers and  leaves and stuff, but if you looked at it in the... right way... it was a face and they put it in my room 'cos  it was so big and in the night... in the night... in the night...'

     They were grown men or at least had lived for several decades, which in some societies is considered the same thing.  But you had to stare at  a man so creased up with dread.

     'Yes?' said Catseye hoarsely.

     '...it whispered things,' said  Chickenwire,  in a quiet  little voice, like a vole in a dungeon.

     They looked at one another.

     'What things?' said Medium Dave.

     'I don't know! I always had my head under the pillow! Anyway, it's just something from when  I was a kid, all  right?  Our dad got rid of  it in the finish. Burned it. And I watched.'

     They  mentally shook themselves, as  people  do when their minds emerge back into the light.

     'It's like me and the dark,' said Catseye.