The Gray House

I end up looking at the tents longer than anyone else, because I was the last to see them and because I can’t climb down. Gradually they tire of discussing this event, and soon I am alone on the windowsill. When Alexander comes to help me, I notice that he is very careful to avert his face.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

He shrugs.

“Nothing. I’m just not interested.”

It doesn’t sound very convincing, not at all.

Once in the hallway everyone darkens, and some put on sunglasses. The walls are not scary anymore. They are uniformly the color of malted milk, smooth and squeaky clean. The stench of paint is overwhelming.

“We are a continuation of the Sepulcher now,” Lary says ruefully. “You call this life?”

No one else says anything.

A good half of the House is already down in the yard. Many are still in pajamas. At least it’s clear that Sphinx was wrong. Hounds of the Sixth have nothing to do with this. They are as eager as everyone else to find out who’s been hiding in the tents. Even the Brothers Pigs are here, all in a row, wheel to wheel. Identical stares and identically opened mouths. No one has risked approaching the wire fence yet.

Finally the flap on one of the tents is thrown open, disgorging three inhabitants. Bulky camo overalls. Cleanly shaven heads. Empty eyes, staring exactly like Ginger’s bear. It doesn’t look like anyone is eager to make their acquaintance. On the contrary, those closest to the fence take several steps back. When I look around a couple of minutes later, I feel that there are significantly fewer of us here.

One of the tent people presses against the fence, contorting his face in a smile. I zoom backwards toward the porch. Only when the wheels bump into the lower step do I realize that never before in my life have I driven backward at such speed. Lary overtakes me and flies up the stairs.

“An empty skin,” he mumbles as he runs. “An empty skin!”

Logs quickly disappear inside.

The tent man puts his fingers through the netting and says something. Still smiling. I wish he’d stop doing that. I’d prefer it if Ginger’s bear smiled suddenly instead of him.

The Brothers Pigs drive by me, each jostling my wheelchair, because I’m right there in the way at the bottom of the stairs. Then Zebra and Corpse run past, pushing crying Elephant before them, and almost flip him over. One of the last to evacuate is Jackal.

“What do they want?” I ask him. “Who are they?”