Copyright (c) 1992 
                        SOMETHING MISSING
                         By Michael Hahn
 
     It started slowly. On a sunny Monday morning, Jeff Sherman's
newspaper wasn't in the driveway. He called the number the paper
carrier had supplied for this situation; the woman at that number
sounded surprised. She apologized and promised to have a paper 
delivered. 
     When Jeff got to the office, his pen was missing. It was his
favorite, a silver Cross with a black, fine-point refill. It
wasn't in his desk drawers, his pockets, or anywhere under the
usual clutter atop his desk. No one else in the office had
borrowed it, they said, or even seen it. Jeff sighed, shrugged,
and went back to work. 
     Jeff took Susan Adams to lunch, hoping to negotiate a date
for later in the week. They enjoyed a light lunch, he was
charming, and it looked like they'd be going to the theatre on
Thursday. He excused himself for a moment to go to the men's
room, and when he returned to the table, she was gone. The waiter
couldn't remember seeing her leave. Her rude departure surprised
Jeff, but he assumed she'd been late for an appointment. 
     When he returned to the office, his desk was gone. The chair
was still there, the plant was still in the corner, and the
charts were still on the walls. The desk and its contents were
missing. 
     No one in the office remembered seeing it taken away. Arthur
Aickman, Jeff's immediate superior, was puzzled. "Well, Jeff,
there's not a lot you can do until we find your desk. Why don't
you take the rest of the afternoon off, and we'll see if we can
find it." 
     Out in the parking lot, his car was gone. He and the parking
attendant searched the lot for an hour, but there was nothing but
the empty space where his car used to be. Jeff called the police
to file a report. An officer arrived and took a description of
the car. Jeff hailed a cab, gave the driver his address. 
     He was deep in thought, trying to fathom the strange 
series of disappearances, when the cab driver interrupted him.
"Hey, buddy, are you sure you gave me the right address?" 
     Jeff was afraid to look. Sure enough, his house was gone. 
The mailbox, rosebushes, even the tool shed was still there, but
the rest of the lot was empty. An empty space had replaced a 
two-story colonial. He shook himself, gave the driver his
mother's address. "God," he thought, "I hope she's still there."
     Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of Darlene 
Sherman's house. Jeff jumped out, and discovered his wallet was 
missing. He convinced the driver to wait, ran to his mother's
door, and leaned on the bell. 
     Darlene Sherman heard the doorbell chime, put the bread
dough back in the bowl, wiped the flour from her hands, and
pushed through the kitchen door. She stopped before the mirror in
the foyer, ran a hand through her hair, and opened the door. 
        No one was there. 
                               END