Porter led me in through a small but ornate side door, and I found myself in what appeared to be a coat room. Automatically, I pulled off my jacket, and before I knew it Porter had taken it and hung it on one of what had to be hundreds of pegs all arrayed on the wall.

“Sir, do you have a pair of house shoes?” Porter asked, looking down at my feet.

I followed his gaze and realized that my shoes were glued with sand and mud. It hadn’t been raining, though it was the season for it. But I must have walked through a patch of dew or fog at some point.

“Sorry, I’m afraid I do not.”

“No worry, sir. I shall find you a pair. I believe you wear a size nine American?” I nodded. Porter always remembered every detail.

A small, quiet part of my brain tried to grab my attention. You’ve only met Porter twice!

Porter continued, snapping me back to my visit. “If you go through that door you’ll find a comfortable sitting room. I shall tell the Master you are here. Would you care for any refreshments?”

By force of habit, I started to say that I was fine, no need to worry about me. When I opened my mouth, I was surprised when instead I said “Oh, I could do with a light snack, if you don’t mind.” That’s not what you meant to say, the quiet part of my brain interjected.

“I shall tell Cookie to whip something up. It will only take a minute, sir.”

Porter bustled off through a plain door in the corner.

I went through the appointed door, carefully wiping my feet on a mat first, and found a room that would have easily filled half my apartment by itself. Several comfortable-looking armchairs were arranged around a small table. I picked one at random and lowered myself into it. A newspaper was sitting on the table. I picked it up and leafed through it. News these days was always a crapshoot, but today, thankfully, had been mostly uneventful. Some of the local politicians had held a debate last night, but nobody had managed to bring up any scandalous topics. Their responses roughly matched their official platforms. I thumbed through to the next section. Sports. The basketball season was off to a roaring start, two wins by wide margins. The city was thrilled.

Porter re-entered. He carried one of those trays with the big domed lid in one hand and a pair of loafers in the other. He set the former on the table and the latter on the floor in front of me.

“Sir, do you prefer to change your own shoes or shall I do it?”

The question was so out of place that for a moment the quiet voice managed to bubble to the surface. This House is tricking you! Porter doesn’t sound anything like your brother. You’ve never been here before but you’re comfortable in the sitting room? Snap out of it, Daniel!

“I can get it, Porter. Thank you.” Now you’re going to just borrow a pair of shoes, like you’re old friends with Carver? You met him yesterday.

I kicked my own sneakers off. Porter collected them and placed them on a shoe rack back in the coat room. I slipped into the loafers. They were an exact fit. I was pleased; normally I was between sizes and rarely did a shoe fit right.

“I have taken the liberty,” Porter was explaining, “Of informing the Master of your arrival. He thought you might like to join him in the games room. Cookie will be bringing in some sandwiches shortly.”

“That sounds very pleasant,” I answered. How did you even know there was a games room? How did Carver know you’d want to go there?, the voice in my head demanded.

Porter led the way down several hallways and into a room that I swear was as large as the ground floor of my whole building. Several tables were arrayed throughout. I recognized the pool table, and it had racks for cues and balls on the wall next to it. There was also a felt-topped table that looked like the sort you see in casinos for playing cards. To my amusement, it had several cheap plastic cupholders attached to it, though the table itself looked to be expensive. Two dartboards hung on the far wall. In the corner there was a little chess set, all the pieces made of metal, one side dull, one side reflective.

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Carver was carefully arranging a set of throwing darts on a little podium and turned when Porter held the door for me.

“Daniel! I’m glad you stopped by. I wanted to get a feel for how existence in the Lane feels for you. Everyone reacts differently, you know how it is.” You don’t. He has to know you don’t, the little voice helplessly said. This House is twisting your mind!

I ignored the voice. “I’m not sure I do, Mister Carver--”

Carver cut me off. “Just Carver, please. Or Mister C, if you must. I’ve always enjoyed the idea of being the ‘cool teacher’.”

“Uh…Carver then. I mean, how could I know how it is? It’s not like my employee orientation included advice on dealing with…what was the phrase again?”

“‘Purely conceptual space.’”

“Right, that. And I know we didn’t cover it in school. Maybe if I had studied philosophy or astrophysics?”

“Hah!” Carver’s laugh was genuine, from his gut. “They wish. Physicists would lose their minds if they had access to the Lane.” He leaned toward me conspiratorially and continued in a stage whisper, “It’s something of a running gag with me and a couple of the local houses, actually. No physicists allowed into the Lane.”

“Heh.” I chucked, picking up a dart and examining it. The fins weren’t plastic, like you’d find in most homes or bars nowadays. I felt one. It seemed to be some sort of metal. It was less flexible than a plastic fin, but sturdier. “I imagine they wouldn’t be able to keep their mouths shut if they found out about it.”

Why are you keeping yours shut? Why didn’t you report to the police, or at least go to the clinic and ask for a checkup! This is insane!

“Well then. How about a quick warmup until Cookie finishes those sandwiches, eh? I’ll keep score.”

“Sounds good to me. Do I have to worry about you cheating? Fudging the numbers in your favor because you didn’t expect me to be any good?”

“Scouts honor,” Carver answered, crossing his fingers over his heart. “You can trust me, Daniel.”

NO! YOU! CAN’T! The voice in my head suddenly shattered though my perceptions. It actually shattered them; it felt like a glass or piece of ice breaking in my head. My headache, which had been fading since I left my apartment, suddenly returned with a vengeance. A part of me was suddenly very aware that I was in a strange house, with a man I barely knew, a non-human staff, and apparently a…brain filter of some type.

I winced. The shattered glass of the illusion was trying to pull itself together in my mind. It was not a pleasant sensation, and I was glad when the little voice rose up like a great bear and slammed the pieces into dust.

I realized I was leaning heavily on the podium. Mister Carver had a faint smile on, under his mustache, but his eyebrows were drawn together. I wasn’t sure if he was worried or satisfied. I straightened up, and turned to face him, thumbing in my pocket for my can of emergency spray.

“Mister Carver,” I started shakily, then took a deep breath to steady myself. “What are you doing to my mind?”

When he answered I suddenly, for the first time, realized that Mister Carver had a British accent. Not posh British, soccer hooligan British. Hadn’t he had a Midwestern U.S. accent before?

“Daniel! You really recovered from that quite a bit sooner than I had expected. I owe Sterns twenty quid. I can explain, but it might take a bit. Would you like to have a seat?”

The glass dust in my mind stirred. ‘Yes, of course.’ it wanted to say. ‘I trust you implicitly.’ The voice…my own sense of self-awareness, I supposed, growled at it. It settled down.

“I think I would rather have this discussion somewhere else,” I responded.

“I thought you might say that. I’ll have Driver bring the car around. Porter can show you out. How about--”

“I actually had a place in mind,” I interrupted.

----

Two hours later, the sun was well down and we were all sitting around a table in a local McDonalds. Carver and Driver, in their fine suit and chauffeur’s hat respectively, looked thoroughly out of place. I had worn a plain windbreaker jacket and jeans, and would have fit in perfectly if I weren’t juxtaposed with the other two.

“Okay,” I said around a mouthful of burger. I had left the House before Cookie brought the sandwiches. “Explain what was going on. No notes, no House, just you. From your mouth.”

“And you’ll trust that?” Carver grinned, white teeth shining under his graying mustache.

“No. But you’ve been polite so far, and as far as I can tell, you’ve caused no harm.” I turned inwards, feeling in my thoughts for the edges of that glassy illusion. It was still so much dust in the corner of my psyche. Good. “So I’ll listen. Then, I’m going to go home and you will not contact me unless I contact you first. Also,” I pointed, rather rudely, at Driver. “He doesn’t get to add any commentary unless I ask for it.”

“Very well,” Carver sighed. Driver scowled, but nodded. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

I took a mouthful of fries as Carver smoothed out the wrapper from my burger. Neither he nor Driver had ordered anything.

“I should like to start from the beginning, but I’m afraid I don’t know the beginning. So I’ll start from the first thing I know,” Carver took a pen from his pocket and drew a little dot on the paper. “This is the House,” he started…