The ringing of my voice fades. I lower my arms and look down on my creations. I scratch my ear. An uncomfortable silence ensues.

The Cthonians writhe back and forth on the counter. As one, they raise their tentacles in greeting. I respond with a, "Hey."

The Hounds of Tindalos run to the corner, where the fridge and counter meet. One by one, they thud into the wall, each unable to figure out why they can't enter into the angle. Apparently their ability to travel through space and time is impaired by their gingerbreaded-ness.

The Deep Ones look at me expectantly. A smaller one, overcome with hunger, decides to bite off its hand. It croaks in pain and steamy-ginger-goodness fills the air. The rest of the pack smells this, and like something out of a Cousteau-esque nature documentary, fall upon their little brother like a school of pirhanna.

It apparently takes less than three seconds to skeletonize a gingerbread monster.

I turn away from the disturbing scene to look at the little gingerbread Nyarlathotep. The largest of all of the dessert demons, it stares back at me with its big tentacle of a head. A single eye on the tentacle blinks at me.

My heart pounds in my chest and my mouth goes dry. The room begins to feel too small and my body too hairy. The trees outside of the kitchen window begin to take on a sinster aspect. The knives and other instruments-de-cuisine mock me with their sharp shininess. The bottles of herbed oils and fragrant vinegars beckon to me, imploring me to drink their obviously poisonous contents.

I shake my head and grab a banana from the fruitbowl. I lunge onto the counter and pin the evil little bugger. Holding the fruit to its cyclopian eye, I yell, "STOP IT!"

Like being hit by a splash of cold water, the irrational fears fade. Dejected, Nyarlathotep pouts. Pretty impressive considering it doesn't have a discernable mouth.

I get off of the dark lord of the Cthulhu Mythos and confront the evil baked goods. "Okay, here's the drill. You don't make me crazy, and I don't eat you. Capish?"

The critters nod in unison.

"Now. What to do with you."

I yell out of the kitchen, "Honey? What should I do with a batch of ginger-demons?"

Without a missed beat, she responds. "Let them run for office."

I grunt. The Deep Ones all rub their chins speculatively. The Hounds nod amongst themselves. The genius Cthonians writhe in agreement. Ginger-Nyarlathotep scratches its butt with its head-tentacle, clearly uncertain. Eventually it wanders across the counter and grabs a magnetic notepad from the fridge. It scribbles a note and holds it up.

Is death, destruction and madness an okay platform?

I shrug. "Sure. Why not. It worked for Nixon."

t this can only end in pain. and crumbs

The outside of the mirror-hall doesn't look like much. I scrabble at the locks, then take my earring out of my ear and, using its point, scratch at the Weakest Chain spot (TM-- For When You're In A Hurry! The Spot Only You Know). The chains shatter. I can replace them later.

I run to the nearest entrance, and go in. I can hear voices not too distant. OK. Shit. OK. I can do this. I walk towards the voices.

There's a gang of people. I mean, I think they're people. I mean, most of them are people.

Hey, is that Penny?

I'm about to say, "Hi, you don't know me but I'm a fan of yours," when a piece of light skitters across my toes. It feels cool, and smooth, and sharp. "Ouch!" I say, instead.

"Eh? Did one of you just throw your voice?"

Penny shakes her head. "I have many skills--"

"Like Xena!" says Wishy-Washy.

"--but ventriloquism is not one of them."

"Then there is someone in the maze with us."

They don't appear to be hearing me. Wait. I squint-- yes. They too gleam with a faint oily, flat light-residue. They're not fully in this relam. The mirror hall is a box suspended between and among realm, and denizens can interact without fully leaving consciousness of their own realm; but you can only see people flatter or equally flat as you. The moving-piece-of-light was sharp enough to cut through to my dimensions, but they're still formatted in the manner of the place they came from.

Which is to say, I need to lose a dimension. Okay-- I suck in my stomach and think thin thoughts. A second later, I've shifted.

It's alway a weird feeling, going 2-D.

A young woman slides out of space, like paper coming off a roll and then standing upright. She stands in front of us, blinking. Her foot is bleeding.

"Whoa. How'd you do that?" I ask.

There are several possible answers to that question. I give the simplest.

"I'm the superintendent to this building. I have the codes. Speaking of which, I need to secur-- fumigate it. Come on, let's get you out of here."

"Come on, let's get you out of here."

Out! Wonderful word. I'm for it.

Penny clears her throat. "Moving deeper in, huh? Don't know what might be next?"

Snark is so much less fun when it's coming from someone else. "I had concerns."

"Clovis would have known the way out."

I'm going to ignore all of them, except the superintendent, until we get back to our home dimension and I can kill them. Slowly. With pipe cleaners.

"There is one small concern," booms the Do-Gooder. "We have accidentally transported a Shard into your building, and we don't know how to slay it. Do you?"

Blast. I wasn't going to tell her about the shard. You find allies in the most unlikely places.

I shrug.

"Yeah. I noticed. It cut my foot. Once I'm done with you, I can go to its level of being, and fight it there." I look at them again. "To get you out of here, we've got to use a door. And to get to the door, I need to switch you to a different level. I've never done this to another person before, but you all seem to have originally belonged to the level we want to go to, so that should make it easier. First, I need to know how many distinct entities you compose, so I know how to try to bind you together. Do you follow me?"

Uh-oh. She wants to kill me.

"We are all one," says the Do-Gooder. "At least, we were. Now I am not certain. We may have diverged."

"May have? May have?" I'm hyperventilating. The mirrors are doing plastic rainbow things at the edges of my vision. I hold my breath.

"Thing is, see, we're all like, self-determined," says Wishy-Washy. "It's not like one of those Trek deals where I need them and they need me. It's more like, we each have discrete personalities, and re-integration might not be possible. You dig?"

"I don't want to be part of them," I say.

"But you are evil," says the Do-Gooder. "If I let you run amok, I will be responsible for the wrongs you do."

"Quite the conundrum," says Edward. "Are you familiar with Shun Kim's works on the divergence of magically created twins?"

"No," says Wishy-Washy. "But if it works for Crichton, it'll work for me."

"Maybe you could just tone them down a little?" Penny says. "I mean, this one's homicidal, and the good one . . ."

". . . talks--and apparently thinks--like a refugee from a bad fantasy novel," finishes the young woman. "I get that. It's possible. That's assuming I can get any of you back in one piece."

A sobering thought. My hands start shaking. I clasp them in front of me, annoyed. Evil shouldn't have anxiety attacks.

"I don't want you messing about in my head," I say. "Bring me back whole or I'll find my own way."