White House Tails

"Somebody please help!" Harold stopped and hesitated. That was a mouse’s cry, no mistake. Scared as he was, Harold began to scamper toward the source of the cries.

As he raced past the closed doors to the Map Room, the portrait of Betty Ford, then the Diplomatic Reception Room with the Presidential Seal above the door, and the China Room, he listened, as the shouts grew louder and more desperate. By the time he had passed the busts of Presidents Jefferson and Lincoln on their tall marble columns and reached the door to the Vermeil Room he had located the cries coming from the White House Library. Avoiding the dim pools of light from the overhead lamps, he wondered if the unknown mouse were caught in a trap or cornered by a cat.

"A cat!" he shivered. Harold’s father and mother had terrified him with warnings of cats, huge, sinister animals with great talons and savage teeth.

He dashed into the Library remembering to keep to the wall. Peering around the Duncan Phyfe furniture, he tried to find where the other mouse was.

The next cry was a jolt that startled Harold but he found its source: someone was trapped on top of the writing desk on the other side of the room. Harold’s dim mouse eyes couldn’t find much in the gloom but his keen hearing led him across the room to the legs of the chair and desk. He quickly decided that these were too steep and slick for him to climb. However, the books and shelves next to them looked possible. He surveyed the height like a mountain climber and began to claw up the back of a large history text with a rough cover.

"Am I all alone here?" The voice sounded impatient and a little annoyed. Harold wondered what kind of mess its owner must be in. He reached the top of the books on the second shelf and looked for a way up the heavy shelf separating his row from the one above it. He decided to climb at the corner and a few seconds later he was perched on the edge of the shelf overlooking the desk.

"Where is everybody? I’m lonely," shouted the voice.

Lonely? Harold looked and was amazed to see a huge cage. "Wow!" he thought. "This must be the biggest mousetrap in the world."

"Don’t worry," he called. "I’m here."

"Eep!" A tubby little white mouse jumped in fright inside of the cage and peered around. He located Harold and sniffed. "Oh. You’re only a mouse."

Harold was instantly irritated. "Darn right I’m a mouse; I’m the mouse that came to save you when I heard your bellowing all the way down the corridor."

The little mouse was a bit chastened. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you a lot of bother. Come around to my front door and I’ll let you in."

Harold leaped onto the desktop and came around to the other side of the magnificent cage. The little mouse swung open the door for him. Harold stopped; mice are very cautious about entering new places, especially cages with trapdoors.

"Come on, don’t be so timid," the white mouse said.

"Timid?!" said Harold. "I’m not the one who was hollering for help."

He came in just the same. Being the polite mouse that he was raised to be, he introduced himself. "My name’s Harold."

"My little girl calls me Walter." Walter drew himself up and said grandly, "I live here in the White House."

"Well, congratulations," said Harold. "So do I."

"Really?" Walter was surprised. "I’ve never noticed you."

"Yeah. Well, we live behind the stove in the kitchen down the hall," Harold said.

"Oh, then that explains it. I normally stay on the Second Floor in a bedroom overlooking Lafayette Park," said Walter.

Harold felt as though he had to show Walter that he was not an intruder. "We’ve been behind the stove for . . . well, for a long, long time. Dad’s father was there before Dad and, um, I’m not sure where Grandfather Ben, that’s my mom’s dad, I don’t really know where he is now. But I’ve got aunts and cousins and uncles all over the place . . . " Harold trailed off. "So how come you yelled for help?" he said, trying to get away from the feeling that he felt like a poor relation.

"My little girl left me here before sundown and I haven’t seen anyone since then," said Walter. "It got darker and colder and I’m not used to being alone, especially at night. I’ve heard sounds all through this house tonight. Do you ever think that sometimes the dead Presidents come back and wander through the dark rooms and corridors searching for things that they left behind from when they lived here?"

Harold looked nervously over his shoulder. He was even more frightened of ghosts than he was of cats. The fact that he hadn’t ever seen a ghost made him that much more afraid. He knew what cats looked like, but his imagination had created terrifying visions of horrifyingly ghastly spirits.

"This night has something different about it," Harold agreed. "Even now, I don’t feel as though we’re alone. It’s like something is watching us." Just as Harold said what he suspected, he glanced toward the door of the Library and was terrified to see that his suspicions were true: a pair of eyes watched from the doorway.