I don’t know how long I stayed there, cramped in. Maybe only a half hour. I kept an eye out through the keyhole and that’s when I saw it. That’s when I saw them. Things. Things were coming in. Just a few old coins and nails at first, trickling in, bouncing along as if someone had tossed them, but then larger things smacking along and soon a great deal of stuff, an old tin bath even, things, things moving by themselves. I saw a tea cup coming spinning in, it had a strange lip to it. The cup! There, there was the moustache cup they made such a business over. Other things followed it, and once a huge mass was in they all grouped in a corner and an old kettle rushed over, closed the door, quite quietly, and then other things wedged it shut, clothes and planks and such. More noise and skittering and now the objects started to swirl around to be picked up in some sort of whirlpool of objects, all twisting and rushing around each other, round in circles, climbing higher – cups, saucers, old pans – and very shortly after it had assembled itself into one great thing, I saw two legs of it from my hiding place, legs made of this and that, but moving like actual legs. Feet, one with a ladle for the shoe end, the other with an old colander. I could see up to its mid-section, the legs were made of long thin things, poles and pipes and rods, but amongst them knives and forks, old busted pairs of glasses, pencils, pens, all shaped together, all got together like a person, the belly I could just make out was the bathtub. But this person of objects, now united, screeched and whined and made sorrowful noises as if it was very scared. There was a noise outside and the thing backed away towards a wall, flinching and shaking, making creaking, groaning sounds. The back wall was shelving, top to bottom, where plates and bowls, tin mugs and cutlery were kept, and other stuff of use in the dining room. The topmost shelves I remembered being quite twelve feet high, they were pretty much empty, to reach those you should need a stepladder. The object-man, that thing-person, stood by the shelves, quivering and whining, and then someone was at the door trying to get in, pushing hard at it. That thing, that being made of so much, let out a high whining noise, and then seem to somehow detonate itself, for all those consolidated bits were all apart again, and were spread out here and there, all over the shelves. It was hiding itself, separating itself and hiding. There was the moustache cup again, upon a shelf, the last to stop moving.