God in heaven, what is this - Showdown at the Twilight Zone Corral?
    When the police arrived, he would have to tell them what was happening, even though 
he would sound like a poster boy for paranoid dementia. Then the mini-kin would either 
brazenly reveal itself, and the rest of the world would plummet into this nightmare with 
Tommy - or the cunning little demon would hide and let the police transfer their raving 
ward to a windowless but well-lighted room with rubber wallpaper.
    At this moment, Tommy almost didn’t care which of the two scenarios played out. In 
either case, the immedi-ate terror would be over, and he would be able to avoid peeing in 
his pants. He’d have time to catch his breath, think about this, maybe even puzzle out an 
explanation for what had happened here - although that seemed no more likely than his 
arriving at an understanding of the meaning of life.
    The fiend hissed again.
    A new possibility occurred to Tommy, and it wasn’t a good one. Maybe the hateful 
little thing would secretly follow him to the psychiatric ward and continue to torment 
him there for the rest of his tortured life, cleverly avoiding being seen by the 
physicians and attendants.
    Instead of charging again, the mini-kin abruptly darted toward the sofa, which still 
stood away from the wall where Tommy had left it during the search.
    With the pistol sight, Tommy followed the creature, but he wasn’t able to track it 
closely enough to justify squeezing off one of his remaining shots.
    The thing disappeared behind the sofa.
    Buoyed slightly by his adversary’s retreat, Tommy dared to hope that the.40-caliber 
round had done some damage after all, at least enough to make the little beast cautious. 
Seeing the mini-kin run from him, he regained a degree perspective regarding the 
indisputable advantage of size that he enjoyed. A modest measure of his lost confidence 
returned to him.
    Tommy eased across the room to peer around that big piece of furniture. The far end 
of the sofa still touched the wall, and it was built to the floor, so the space behind it 
was a V-shaped dead end, yet the mini-kin wasn’t there.
    Then he saw the torn flaps of fabric and the ragged hole in the upholstery. The 
creature had burrowed into the sofa and was now hiding inside it.
    Why?
    Why ask why?
    From the moment the stitches had pulled out of the doll’s face and the first 
monstrous eye had blinked at him through the tear in the cloth, Tommy had been beyond all 
the why questions. They were more suitable for a sane universe where logic ruled, not for 
this place in which he currently found himself. The main issue now was how - how could he 
stop the beast, how could he save himself? And he also had to ask what next? Even if the 
utter irrationality of these events made it impossible to anticipate where the night 
would lead before dawn, he had to try to puzzle out the purpose behind the doll, the 
course of the plot.
    THE DEADLINE IS DAWN.
    He didn’t understand that message at all. What dead-line, for God’s sake? Who had 
established it? What did he have to do to meet the deadline?
    TICKTOCK.
    Oh, he understood that message well enough. Time was running out. The night was 
passing as fast as the rain was falling outside, and if he didn’t get his act together, 
then he was going to be toast before sunrise.
    TICKTOCK.
    Toast for the hungry mini-kin.
    TICKTOCK.
    Munch, munch. Crunch, crunch.
    His head was spinning - and not simply because he had thumped it hard against the 
floor when he’d fallen.
    He circled the sofa, studying it as he moved.
    Fire. Maybe a roaring fire could achieve better results than a bullet.
    While the creature was building a nest - or doing whatever the hell it was doing in 
there - Tommy might be able to sneak down to the garage, siphon a quart of gasoline out 
of the Corvette, grab a pack of matches from a drawer in the kitchen, and return to set 
the sofa on fire.
    No. No, that would take too long. The repulsive little creepozoid would realize that 
he was gone, and when he came back, the thing probably wouldn’t be inside the sofa any 
more.
    Now the mini-kin was quiet, which didn’t mean that it was taking a nap. It was 
scheming at something.
    Tommy needed to scheme too. Desperately.
    Think, think.
    Because of the light-beige carpet, Tommy kept one can of spot remover downstairs and 
another upstairs in the master bathroom, so he would be able to attack an accidental 
spill of Pepsi - or whatever - before it became a permanent stain. The can contained 
approximately one pint of fluid, and in bold red letters the label warned highly 
flammable.
    Highly flammable. That had a pleasant ring to it. Highly flammable, hugely flammable, 
spectacularly flammable, explosively flammable - no words in the English language sounded 
sweeter than those.
    And on the hearth of the small fireplace in the master bedroom was a battery-sparked 
butane match with which he could light the gas under the ceramic logs. He should be able 
to leave the office, grab the spot remover, pluck the match off the hearth, and return 
here in a minute, maybe less.
    One minute. Even as clever as it seemed to be, the mini-kin probably wouldn’t realize 
that Tommy was out of the room for that brief time.
    So now who’s going to be toast?
    Tommy smiled at the thought.
    From deep in the mysterious creature’s upholstered haven came a creaking and then a 
sharp twang.
    Tommy flinched - and lost his smile.
    The beast fell silent once more. It was up to something, all right. But what?
    If Tommy retrieved the spot remover and set the sofa on fire, the flames would spread 
across the carpet and swiftly to the walls. The house might burn down, even if he 
telephoned the fire department immediately after setting the blaze.
    He was fully insured, of course, but the insurance company would refuse to pay if 
arson was suspected. The fire marshal would probably investigate and discover traces of 
an accelerant - the spot remover - in the rubble. Tommy would never be able to convince 
them that he had set the fire as an act of self-defence.
    Nevertheless, he was going to ease open the door, step quietly into the hallway, 
sprint for the can of spot remover, and take his chances withFrom the mini-kin’s lair 
came the sound of fabric ripping, and one of the seat cushions was dislodged by the beast 
as it tore out of the sofa directly in front of Tommy. In one dark bony hand it held a 
six-inch length of a broken seat spring: a spiral of gleaming eighth-inch steel wire.
    Shrieking with rage and mindless hatred, its piercing voice as shrill as an