What a fine thing it would be, Harvey thought, to build a place like this. To drive its foundations deep into the earth; to lay its floors and hoist its walls; to say: Where there was nothing, I raised a house. That would be a very fine thing.

It wasn’t a puffed-up peacock of a place, either. There were no marble steps, no fluted columns. It was a proud house, certainly, but there was nothing wrong with that; it had much to be proud of. It stood four stories high, and boasted more windows than Harvey could readily count. Its porch was wide, as were the steps that led up to its carved front door; its slated roofs were steep and crowned with magnificent chimneys and lightning rods.

Its highest point, however, was neither a chimney nor a lightning rod, but a large and elaborately wrought weathervane, which Harvey was peering up at when he heard the front door open and a voice say:

“Harvey Swick, as I live and breathe.”

He looked down, the weathervane’s white silhouette still behind his eyes, and there on the porch stood a woman who made his grandmother (the oldest person he knew) look young. She had a face like a rolled-up ball of cobwebs, from which her hair, which could also have been spiders’ work, fell in wispy abundance. Her eyes were tiny, her mouth tight, her hands gnarled. Her voice, however, was melodious, and its words welcoming.

“I thought maybe you’d decided not to come,” she said, picking up a basket of freshly cut flowers she’d left on the step, “which would have been a pity. Come on in! There’s food on the table. You must be famished.”

“I can’t stays long,” Harvey said.

“You must do whatever you wish,” came the reply. “I’m Mrs. Griffin, by the way.”

“Yes, Rictus mentioned you.”

“I hope he didn’t bend your ear too much. He loves the sound of his own voice. That and his reflection.”

Harvey had climbed the porch steps by now, and stopped in front of the open door. This was a moment of decision, he knew, though he wasn’t quite certain why.

“Step inside,” Mrs. Griffin said, brushing a spider-hair back from her furrowed brow.

But Harvey still hesitated, and he might have turned around and never stepped inside the House except that he heard a boy’s voice yelling:

“I got ya! I got ya!” followed by uproarious laughter.

“Wendell!” Mrs. Griffin said. “Are you chasing the cats again?”

The sound of laughter grew even louder, and it was so full of good humor that Harvey stepped over the threshold and into the House just so that he could see the face of its owner.

He only got a brief look. A goofy, bespectacled face appeared for a moment at the other end of the hallway. Then a piebald cat dashed between the boy’s legs and he was off after it, yelling and laughing again.

“He’s such a crazy boy,” Mrs. Griffin said, “but all the cats love him!”

The House was more wonderful inside than out. Even on the short journey to the kitchen Harvey glimpsed enough to know that this was a place built for games, chases and adventures. It was a maze in which no two doors were alike. It was a treasurehouse where some notorious pirate had hidden his blood-stained booty. It was a resting place for carpets flown by djinns, and boxes sealed before the Flood, where the eggs of beasts that the earth had lost were wrapped and waiting for the sun’s heat to hatch them.

“It’s perfect!” Harvey murmured to himself.

Mrs. Griffin caught his words. “Nothing’s perfect,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“Because time passes,” she went on, staring down at the flowers she’d cut. “And the beetle and the worm find their way into everything sooner or later.”

Hearing this, Harvey wondered what grief it was Mrs. Griffin had known or seen to make her so mournful.

“I’m sorry,” she said, covering her melancholy with a tiny smile. “You didn’t come here to listen to my dirges. You came to enjoy yourself, didn’t you?”

“I guess I did,” Harvey said.

“So let me tempt you with some treats.”

Harvey sat himself down at the kitchen table, and within sixty seconds Mrs. Griffin had set a dozen plates of food in front of him: hamburgers, hot dogs and fried chicken; mounds of buttered potatoes; apple, cherry and mud pies, ice cream and whipped cream; grapes, tangerines and a plate of fruits he couldn’t even name.

He set to eating with gusto, and was devouring his second slice of pie when a freckled girl with long, frizzy blond hair and huge, blue-green eyes ambled in.

“You must be Harvey,” she said.

“How did you know?”

“Wendell told me.”

“How did he know?”

She shrugged. “He just heard. I’m Lulu, by the way.”

“Did you just arrive?”

“No. I’ve been here for ages. Longer than Wendell. But not as long as Mrs. Griffin. Nobody’s been here as long as she has. Isn’t that right?”

“Almost,” said Mrs. Griffin, a little mysteriously. “Do you want something to eat, sweetie?”

Lulu shook her head. “No thanks. I haven’t got much of an appetite at the moment.”

She nevertheless sat down opposite Harvey, stuck her thumb in the mud pie, and licked it clean.

“Who invited you here?” she asked.

“A guy called Rictus.”

“Oh yeah. The one with the grin?”

“That’s him.”

“He’s got a sister and two brothers,” she went on.

“You’ve met them then?”

“Not all of them,” Lulu admitted. “They keep themselves to themselves. But you’ll meet one or two of them sooner or later.”

“I… don’t think I’ll be staying,” Harvey said. “I mean my mom and dad don’t even know I’m here.”

“Sure they do,” Lulu replied. “They just didn’t tell you about it.” This confused Harvey, and he said so. “Call your mom and dad,” Lulu suggested. “Ask ‘em.”

“Can I do that?” he wondered.

“Of course you can,” Mrs. Griffin replied. “The phone’s in the hallway.”

Carrying a spoonful of ice cream with him, Harvey went to the phone and dialed. At first there was a whining sound on the line, as though a wind were in the wires. Then, as it cleared, he heard his mom say: “Who is this?”

“Before you start yelling—” he began.

“Oh, honey,” his mom cooed. “Did you arrive?”

“Arrive?”

“You are at the Holiday House, I hope.”

“Yes, I am. But—”

“Oh, good. I was worried maybe you’d lost your way. Do you like it there?”

“You knew I was coming?” Harvey said, catching Lulu’s eye.

I told you, she mouthed.

“Of course we knew,” his mom went on. “We invited Mr. Rictus to show you the place. You looked so sad, you poor lamb. We thought you needed a little fun.”

“Really?” said Harvey, astonished by this turn of events.

“We just want you to enjoy yourself,” his mom went on. “So you stay just as long as you want.”

“What about school?” he said.

“You deserve a little time off,” came the reply. “Don’t you worry about anything. Just have a good time.”

“I will, Mom.”

“’Bye, honey.”

“Bye.”

Harvey came away from the conversation shaking his head in amazement.

“You were right,” he said to Lulu. “They arranged everything.”

“So now you don’t have to feel guilty,” said Lulu. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around later, huh?”

And with that she ambled away.

“If you’re finished eating,” Mrs. Griffin said, “I’ll show you to your room.”

“I’d like that.”

She duly led Harvey up the stairs. At the landing, basking on the sun-drenched windowsill, was a cat with fur the color of the cloudless sky.

“That’s Blue-Cat,” Mrs. Griffin said. “You saw Stew-Cat playing with Wendell. I don’t know where Clue-Cat is, but he’ll find you. He likes new guests.”

“Do you have a lot of people coming here?”

“Only children. Very special children like you and Lulu and Wendell. Mr. Hood won’t have just anybody.”

“Who’s Mr. Hood?”

“The man who built the Holiday House,” Mrs. Griffin replied.