"And this," Cholmondley Featherstonehough waved a hand at a hulking great wardrobe, "is where the fourth Duke was murdered—head almost completely severed, yet he lived for several days."
     Icy fingers walked down our collective spines as we viewed the objet de terreur.
     "Mercy," Mrs. Cowpuncher breathed. "I bet that bloodstain took some doing to get out."
      "What's inside that there cabinet?" Mr. Cowpuncher spoke through his adenoids. "Something ghoulish, I hope. We didn't pony up five pounds each just to see some ugly furniture. Mrs. Cowpuncher wants to see some ghosts, man!"
     One of the twins, I wasn't sure if it was Viola or Cesario, sneezed thirteen times in a row, then passed out.
     "Well, that's interesting, but hardly worth five pounds," Mr. Cowpuncher said viewing the swooned figure. "Now about this cabinet..."
      "Sir! I must ask you to remove your hands from the wardrobe doors immediately!"
     "Why, what do you have inside there, your empties?" Mr. Cowpuncher snickered.
     Cholmondley Featherstonehough put a warning hand on the American's arm. "I must beg you sir, to step away from the wardrobe. For inside it...inside it..." his voice trailed away as tears filled his eyes. He clutched his face and made low moaning sounds, then fell to the ground with a whump.
     "It ain't manly to cry, son," Mr. Cowpuncher said, bending over the prostrate man. We laid him next to the swooned twin (Cesario or Viola), and considered the ominous wardrobe.
     "Well, I for one ain't going to let a little thing like Mr. Farnswallow there blubbering like a girl stop me from seeing what's in that cabinet." Mr. Cowpuncher hitched up his pants, then took a firm grip on the wardrobe doors and yanked them open.
      We clustered behind him and peered over his shoulder. A faint red light throbbed and pulsated deep within the interior of the wardrobe. With painful, excruciating slowness, the light strengthened.
      "Everard, what's that white thing in the middle of the glowing red light?" Mrs. Cowpuncher asked, clutching her husband's flannel lumberjack shirt sleeve.
      "It looks like—oh merciful heavens, it couldn't be! Not…not…" Viola (it was Cesario who fainted earlier) grasped at her throat and backed away from the wardrobe, shaking her head and keening softly to herself.
      "Zoooooooooool," a deep voice rumbled from the wardrobe.
      "The hellspawn lace!" Viola shrieked, flinging her arms over her head and heedlessly trampling Cesario in her mad dash to escape the room.
      "Hellspawn my Aunt Fanny," Mr. Cowpuncher spewed, his eyes googling nevertheless as the lace crept forward.
      "Well you have to admit, Everard," Mrs. Cowpuncher replied, one hand on her hip as she considered the demonic lace, "it's something you don't see every day. Possessed lace, that is. Especially lace that has a name."
      "Faugh!" snorted her erstwhile husband. "Not even worth a few shillings. It's all done with mirrors and fishing wire."
      "Zoooooooooool!" The walls of the wardrobe vibrated as a terrifying, brimstone-laden voice boiled around us. We—those of us who were left—looked at one another. Ogdred Weary, my companion of three years, raised his eyebrows.
      "Well how do you do, Mr. Zool. I'm Gertie Cowpuncher, and this is Everard. I don't know who the rest of these people are—perhaps you'd like to introduce yourselves?" Mrs. Cowpuncher turned back to ask us. To a man, we shook our heads.
      "They're English, mother," Mr. Cowpuncher spoke in what he mistakenly believed was a whisper. "You know—cold shoulders and boiled potatoes and all that."
      "Well that's no excuse for having bad manners! Now Mr. Zool, I am the president of the Missoula branch of the Dionne Warwick Psychic Friends Fan Club, and I can't tell you what an honor it is to meet you. It's not often I get the chance to meet satanic accessories."
      "Foolish woman!" Ogdred tried to leap forward, but we pulled him back to safety. "Do not taunt the lace! Beware the wrath of Zool!"
      "Ha ha," laughed Mr. Cowpuncher. "Ha ha ha ha ha…gark!"
      "Now that's worth five pounds to see," Mrs. Cowpuncher said as we watched Zool, the Satan's Imp of Lace, fling itself to Mr. Cowpuncher's neck and throttle him.
      "Zooooooooool," the lace proclaimed as it dug its pointed, delicately hand-stitched edging deep, deep within Mr. Cowpuncher's wattle. "Zooooooooool!"
      Ogdred and I clutched one another, fearful that the lace might turn its dark as sin eyes upon us. The others moved restlessly behind us, trying to get a good view of the activities.
      Mr. Cowpuncher dropped to the ground, dead as dead could be. "Zoooooooool!" chortled the lace to itself as it tugged at its victim's foot.
      "I say! It's going to eat him!" gasped little Ken Kittenshanks, first cousin to Cholmondley Featherstonehough. He kicked at Cholmondley's ribs. "Chum, wake up. The lace is eating that obnoxious American. You don't want to miss this, now do you?"
      Cholmondley Featherstonehough sat up, rubbing his side. "What…oh god! Who let that out?"
      "Zooooo…cack…urgh…UMPH," the lace heaved and pulled until it had Mr. Cowpuncher into the wardrobe. "Zoooooooooool!" it cried triumphantly one last time, then the wardrobe doors slammed
shut.       "Definitely worth five pounds," Mrs. Cowpuncher murmured, pulling out her Kodak and snapping a photo of the wardrobe. "Why I'll bet even Dionne herself never had her husband killed and consumed by devil lace."
      "Ur…yes," Cholmondley said, taking a brief moment to clip his cousin on the head. "Now, if you'll all come with me, our next stop is the Dowager Duchess' sitting room. In there you will find a particularly nice example of French tapestry, a Louis XIV settee, and a vortex to another world. If you'd be so kind as to come this way…"
      Taking one last look at the wardrobe, we shrugged our shoulders and followed Cholmondley out the door.