dled
brain failed to find the answer.

The pendulum clock struck slowly, its every other chime as usual
setting up a sympathetic vibration in the pewter vase that stood
upon the mantel.

Mr. Chambers got to his feet, strode to the door, opened it and
looked out.

Moonlight tesselated the street in black and silver, etching the
chimneys and trees against a silvered sky.

But the house directly across the street was not the same. It was
strangely lop-sided, its dimensions out of proportion, like a
house that suddenly had gone mad.

He stared at it in amazement, trying to determine what was wrong
with it. He recalled how it had always stood, foursquare, a solid
piece of mid-Victorian architecture.

Then, before his eyes, the house righted itself again. Slowly it
drew together, ironed out its queer angles, readjusted its
dimensions, became once again the stodgy house he knew it had
to be.

With a sigh of relief, Mr. Chambers turned back into the hall.

But before he closed the door, he looked again. The house was
lop-sided ... as bad, perhaps worse than before!

Gulping in fright, Mr. Chambers slammed the door shut, locked it
and double bolted it. Then he went to his bedroom and took two
sleeping powders.

His dreams that night were the same as on the night before. Again
there was the islet in mid-ocean. Again he was alone upon it.
Again the squirming hydrophinnae were eating his foothold piece
by piece.

He awoke, body drenched with perspiration. Vague light of early
dawn filtered through the window. The clock on the bedside table
showed 7:30. For a long time he lay there motionless.

Again the fantastic happenings of the night before came back to
haunt him and as he lay there, staring at the windows, he
remembered them, one by one. But his mind, still fogged by sleep
and astonishment, took the happenings in its stride, mulled over
them, lost the keen edge of fantastic terror that lurked around
them.

The light through the windows slowly grew brighter. Mr. Chambers
slid out of bed, slowly crossed to the window, the cold of the
floor biting into his bare feet. He forced himself to look out.

There was nothing outside the window. No shadows. As if there
might be a fog. But no fog, however, thick, could hide the apple
tree that grew close against the house.

But the tree was there ... shadowy, indistinct in the gray, with
a few withered apples still clinging to its boughs, a few
shriveled leaves reluct