Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

He had no idea how long he had been wandering around this place. He had been roaming from room to room with no idea where he was and how he got here. He turned into yet another room in this darned place. It was always the same, in one door to a room, and out through another door, into yet another room.

Where the heck was the exit?! Was there even an exit?!

Of course there must be one! He scolded himself for that moment of self doubt. He got in here somehow, didn’t he?

He paused at the door before him. He really hated these little moments of self-doubt. And he had to admit that they were coming on more and more often now. It really should not surprise him, since this entire unreal place was clearly constructed out of some sort of gingerbread.

Ultra-hard gingerbread, he told himself wryly.

He took a deep breath and turned the door knob. He pushed the door open and entered the room beyond. It was an extremely cozy living room and came complete with couches, sofas, coffee tables and even an old-fashioned rocking chair! An old horned gramophone with its huge brass-colored trumpet sat proud and alone in a far corner. Everything looked so real, he would have believed them the real thing if not for that sweet sugary scent that assailed his nostrils the moment he stepped into the room.

Nevertheless, he could not help but explore the furnishings in depth, and to marvel at the intricate details that were inherent in every single piece of furniture. The frame of the sofa, as far as he could determine, was made from the same type of material as the wall. The cushioning on the sofa was soft, like a sponge cake. It was a sponge cake, he realized as he took a closer look at it.

Was it edible? he wondered.

Next he bent down and examined the coffee table. It was made from hardened caramel to replicate the color and feel of polished mahogany. He noted the series of intricate carvings that adorned the outer edge of the round coffee table. His fingers traced the carvings. The first carving showed a man, perhaps a farmer standing before his field. The next showed a king on his throne before his court. Then there was girl weaving something. The next one showed a girl talking to a dwarf with a pointy nose. The final carving showed a newborn child. The series of carvings told a story, he was sure. But somehow, its significance escaped him at the moment.

Suddenly a soft melody filled the room. It was so soft he had to strain to hear it, so soft he could barely hear it, but he knew it was there. His eyes went directly to the horned gramophone sitting in the corner. He could see the black disc moving. He took a quick glance around the room. He was alone.

He was not unnerved!

He walked slowly towards the gramophone. Like everything else within these gingerbread walls, it was made out of some sort of a sweet. He had no doubt that this was a perfect replica of the real thing, which according to the tag, was a Victor II Humpback model built in 1909. He could smell the licorice that made the vinyl disc now turning round and round before him. He placed his finger lightly on the shiny brass trumpet and felt the tiniest of vibrations, proving that the music did indeed emanate from that very edible-looking gramophone.

And he still could not identify that familiar melody that was echoing in his mind.

But there was one thing he knew very clearly by now. Whoever created this place took great pride and care in creating all these artistic furnishings. That person was very patient. That person was meticulous to a fault, taking care even to put down the actual date of the replica gramophone. And that person was likely obsessive. Very, very obsessive. And that was a bad thing.

He moved away from the gramophone almost reluctantly. He wondered why he was so reluctant to move away from that gramophone. But he knew he must. He must if he wanted out of this crazy place. And crazy was the only word he could think of to describe it. So far, he had been roaming almost aimlessly from room to room. Each room that he had been in had at least two doors, some as many as five. There were no windows, not a single one so far.

He had not started out that way. He had diligently taken note and painstakingly built his mental map from the moment he wandered out of the room where he awoke.

But that map was getting really screwed up. That was almost unexpected, since he did have close to eidetic memory. And now, he could not find his way back there even if he tried. Actually he did try – he retraced his steps through the same set of doors, or so he thought. But somehow he ended in totally different rooms from where he was expecting. And meanwhile his mental map kept expanding.

The entire place was like a maze and a puzzle. And the whole puzzle just was not making any logical sense! A good number of those rooms would have to be overlapping each other, according to his mental map of the place. Furthermore, he should have passed his original room several times over.

He felt the first hint of unease in his guts.

That’s just not possible! There must be a logical explanation!

He could feel a migraine coming. He pushed himself to ignore the pain and focused on solving the mystery of the overlapping rooms of his mental map. What if…what if the entire place was built on an incline? Yes, that was possible. Then the rooms would be one on top of the other and not overlapping.

He could feel his palms getting clammy.

There were several things wrong with that reasoning, he knew. Firstly, he did not feel at any point in time that he was moving either uphill or downhill. Secondly, it was simply not possible for those overlapping rooms on his mental map to be located one above the other given his recall of the dimensions of the rooms, because that would mean that the incline would have to be at least fifty degrees. And at that steepness, he would be doing rock climbing and not walking. Thirdly, his incline theory dictated that all the overlapping rooms should be logically located at one end of his mental map, and his mental map showed those overlapping rooms spread out evenly in random locations.

It was impossible.

His mental map was just not logically possible.

Then there was that music again, and for some reason his head started to pound. The lingering tangy gingerbread smell suddenly intensified, turning sickeningly sweet. The room he was in felt like it was moving, and his vision blurred. He thought he saw something pouring out of the walls and he fought to hold back an inexplicable terror rising from deep within him.

No…no… not again… all for nothing…

Slowly, like a drowning man, he sank down onto the hard, sweet floor and was soon totally knocked out.

oooooo

He could hear a melody of sorts. It sounded familiar. It should be a happy melody, something told him. Yet it sounded so haunting he felt like crying.

Then the music was gone….

He opened his eyes.

He looked up at the golden-brown ceiling above him. He felt he was lying on something sticky; something sweet and sticky, and found he was lying on a bed made of soft spongy gingerbread.

Suddenly he felt a little nauseous. His sinuses hurt. The sharp tangy scent of sugared ginger surrounded him, smothering him in its powerful embrace. That…that…stench permeated every inch of his skin. He knew he could not escape it. That was bad; it meant that he was here for a long time.

He forced himself to gather his thoughts, and to think.

How long?

He had no idea.

Where was he?

He had no idea.

Who was he?

He felt the tiniest spark of panic rising, which he quickly squashed.

Calm.

He strove for calm.

Think.

Okay, he could not remember his name. But what could he remember?

A house in a town called…Bayport! Yes! Bayport!

An image of him with a blond-headed youth flashed through his mind. He knew that youth. He worked to push past the fog clouding his mind. He saw another man, an older version of himself, talking to him, and the blond-headed youth stood right next to him.

An older version of himself? So he knew what he looked like. He knew his eyes were brown, and he had dark brown hair. And he attended Bayport High. He shared a van with his younger brother…he had a younger brother!

And his brother’s name was Joe…Joseph Hardy…and his name is…his name is Frank. Yes! He is Frank Hardy! He exulted.

Just as quickly, that short uplifting moment was gone. He remembered: Joe had been missing for a week.

He remembered talking to all his and Joe’s friends and classmates, tracking his brother’s activities on the day he vanished. Vanessa was the last to see Joe that day. They had stayed behind to finish off a class project. She left early. Then there was nothing, except for his brother’s driver’s license and a half of a biscuit left on Joe’s motorbike. He had gone through the entire list of potential enemies, even secretly contacted The Gray Man and pleaded for help after the FBI packed up and left. He hit the dead-end at every turn, but he refused to give up.

Was Joe still alive? He wondered.

Of course his brother lives! Frank refused to believe otherwise. He would find Joe. He had never failed his brother and he would not start now.

But first, he had to get out of here.

He scanned his environs. It was unfamiliar and it was strange. First things first; one must ask the right questions.

So, how did he come to be in this place?

He had no idea. Try as he might, he could not remember those necessary details. He could only remember going on an errand for his mom. His last memory was of driving down Shore Road. Why was he even there? Shore Road was definitely not on his route back home!

And where was this place?

Frank took a good look around him. The golden-brown walls; the bed he was lying on that was made of gingerbread. In fact, he would bet from that sickeningly sweet, spicy aroma that overwhelmed the room that everything here was made of gingerbread.

And sweets, he added. Lots and lots of sugar here…

His fingers traced the multicolored M&Ms chocolates and jellybeans that were used to create the mosaic artwork for the headboard of the bed. He had to admit that it was a very intricate piece of artwork and felt a grudging respect for the skill and the patience of the person who created it.

Well, obviously he would not be getting any answers here, so he might as well get moving. Honestly though, the absolute silence in the room was starting to freak him out. He stood up and headed towards the only door. He wondered why this particular move seemed so familiar…it was as if he had done this before.

He opened the door and walked through.

He was in a nursery complete with a baby cot and a changing table. A hanging mobile hovered over the cot, its chocolate frogs slowly turning, blocking the light at intervals, and casting froggy shadows that moved slowly around the room.

He could feel sticky sweat forming on his back.

Frank forced himself to focus on the two doors before him. Another memory flashed in his mind.

He was walking aimlessly from room to room, desperately searching for an exit. There was no exit, and he never once returned to the same room….

Frank could not stop a sudden shiver going through him.

Again he forcefully clamped down on that unwanted emotion through sheer willpower. It was not something he needed right now.

He glared at the other door in the nursery and strode determinedly towards it.

Room behind is brown bedroom, and room ahead is…

…an indoor candy-land playground.

There was a merry-go-round, swings, see-saws, slides, and even a sand pit. The merry-go-round was made out of cookies turning about a lollipop. The little candy horses for little kids to ride on were made from colored crystallized sugar and came complete with chocolate stirrups. The see-saws were chocolate logs and the swings were hardened caramel pieces held aloft by licorice strings. The sand pit was filled with brown sugar instead of sand, of course. And there was even a sandcastle standing tall and grand in the middle of the sand pit.

It was clear to Frank that whoever created this playground had invested many loving hours building it. That person must be obsessive…

Very, very obsessive and that is a bad thing...

Frank jumped as those words flashed past him.

Did he say those exact words before?

He had no idea.

Frank eyed the two doors before him. He wondered which to go for. He could not decide. Another thought suddenly occurred to him. What if he wanted to return to the nursery?

Why would he want to do that?

But something told him to do it. He walked rather hesitantly back to the door which he knew should return him to the nursery.

Why did he feel so…scared…of what lay behind that door?

He reached out for the door knob. He turned it. He pushed it inwards. And he stared at the sight before him in shock.

It wasn’t a nursery but a kitchen that he was looking at. And that was impossible. He turned back to look at the other two doors beyond the sandpit and the see-saws right before him. He was at the right door! It should have been the nursery…another memory flashed.

He was in deep thought….A good number of those rooms would have to be overlapping each other, according to his mental map of the place….What if…what if the entire place was built on an incline? There were several things wrong with that reasoning…

What if the rooms could shift? Frank asked himself.

He recalled that mental map now, and knew instantly it could not be applied to his current…awakening. Yes, he had traveled this journey several times now….

But why? For what purpose?

Again he had no answers. But he knew each time he started again, he had to work harder at keeping his calm.

Frank willed himself to focus on the mystery of the changing rooms instead. Shifting rooms? Again that theory was highly impossible. He had felt nothing and heard nothing. And there was no way to move an entire room so completely and smoothly with so little time.

At least there was no way that he could think of that was possible with currently known technology, Frank admitted. But, that does not mean that there is no logical explanation, he reminded himself sternly.

What should he do now? Should he go back and check out the other two doors first? Would it make a difference?

No.

His stomach growled in hunger, and he decided he might as well try the kitchen.

He walked in.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.