Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

He crept to the edge of the hole, got on all fours, and peeked under the plank. The stench of rotted fish hit him full in the face. A ginger cat, ragged, dirty, and wet, arched its back and hissed at him. Rex whistled excitedly and toddled away. When he returned, his pockets were full of stones. The cat must have figured what was in store for it and attempted to jump out. Rex shot it down with a piece of brick. Then he proceeded to toss the rest of his haul. The planks interfered with his aim, and most of the stones missed the target. Rex was afraid that the cat would either bolt or start screaming. The cat was indeed yelping now, drawing attention to itself. Rex was slow to notice Lame, and once he did it was useless to pretend that he'd just happened near the hole by accident.

Lame, the hunchback with golden curls, an unpleasant stare, and a twisted leg, was one of Skull's people.

“Having fun?” he said, stopping next to Rex and looking down into the hole.

The cat was frantic, throwing itself against the smooth concrete walls. It might have gotten out if not for the injured paw. Three legs were not enough for the jump.

“Get the animal out,” Lame said, lighting up.

Siamese started to back away. Lame grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“I can’t. It's too deep. If I take the planks away it’ll get out by itself.”

Lame didn't say anything. Rex began to take off the lumber. Once the last plank was gone, he looked back at Lame.

“Get it out,” Lame repeated indifferently. “Before I throw you in.”

Rex leaned forward and made a plaintive purring sound, but the cat did not respond. It was hiding somewhere. Siamese sighed and slithered into the hole. He was afraid to jump. Because of the leg.

Lame stood right at the edge. Rex shot him a glance, saw the evil slit of the lipless mouth, closed his eyes, and crashed down to the bottom of the hole.

The cat went completely berserk. It took to the walls, mewling and scrabbling for purchase. Rex felt the leg, making sure it was intact, and then tried to grab the protesting cat.

“It scratched me!”

“Get it out,” the implacable voice said again.

The cat drew zigzags in the air around Rex. He tried to catch it by the tail. It doubled over with a muffled yelp, claws out, then jumped on Rex's head and out of the hole, leaving ginger hairs in his hands. Its scream trailed off in the direction of the garage and then ascended to the sky.

Rex crouched, waiting. His scratched face and hands smarted. At first he saw only the sky above him, but then Lame appeared, surrounded by his golden halo of hair, in a striped blazer the color of mustard. He was holding a piece of brick. Siamese stared at it in horror.

“Let's play,” Lame said. “You're going to be the cat, and I'm going to be you. It's a great game. Ready?”

He flung the brick down. Rex gasped and shielded his head.

“Isn't that fun?” Lame said. “But if I were you I'd try to duck instead. Or you might get hit, you know.”

He tossed two more stones and then yanked Siamese out by the collar. Reeking of fish, limp as a rag, Siamese sagged in his hands, eyes closed. But as soon as Lame lowered him to the ground, Rex perked up and dashed toward the House sideways, like a crab. Lame gave him one last look and sat down on the plank, smoking and dropping the ash down into the hole.

The boys of the Poxy room were playing catch with the boxing glove. The radio screamed. Magician covered the hamster with his top hat, then pulled the hat back and sighed sadly. The hamster, still not used to the top hat, was gorging itself on potato peel to calm its nerves. Siamese Max, wearing a polka-dot shirt, was sitting on the windowsill, pressing his nose and lips against the glass and looking fretfully down at the yard. He was worried. So worried that he was ready to throw up.

“Blind went away somewhere in the night again,” Stinker said, hugging the glove he'd just caught. “Where, I wonder?”

“If you're so curious, go follow him sometime and see for yourself,” Wolf suggested.

The glove smacked him in the jaw, and he swatted it away.

“I was going to,” Stinker said. “Except he'd hear me. So there wouldn't be any sense in my doing it.”

“Leave the poor rodent alone,” Humpback said to Magician. “Can't you see, it's eating like crazy because of you?”

“That means it's working,” Magician enthused. “It must be eating to put on some extra weight, because it's afraid of disappearing!”

Siamese Rex came in, covered in dirt and scratches, steeped in the stink of rotted fish. He stumbled to the bed and lay on it, face to the wall, without even glancing at his brother.

I knew it, Max thought miserably. Something happened to him down there. Something bad.

Sissies tactfully avoided asking questions. Hamster, free of the attention, sneaked under the bed. Wolf started drawing a tattoo on his cheek.

Siamese lay very quietly. The only part of him that was moving was his hand, scratching words into the wall with a razor: DEATH TO LAME.Max came closer and looked over his shoulder.

The House was awake. The teachers and counselors might have been sleeping, the dogs and the television, but not the House. From its bowels, from right under its roots, music emerged, seeping through the walls and ceilings, making the House tremble slightly. The nexus was in the basement.

The dark figures of Poxy Sissies crawled along the dark hallways. Magician's crutch thumped softly. Elephant huffed, burdened by the weight of Stinker on his shoulders. The cavalcade of white nightgowns proceeded down the stairs. They opened the front door and went out into the yard, blackened by the moonless night. Still in lockstep they stole closer to the basement windows and sat down on the ground next to them. Then lay flat. The basement had been turned into a bar, and the seniors were going wild down there. The windows flashed orange and green, the glass vibrated to the jumps of the dancers. It was a crazy kaleidoscope with human silhouettes whirling inside. The boys looked in breathlessly.

There was only one thing more awesome than the seniors' fights, and that was their entertainment. Beer benders, otherworldly dances of the glued together, wheelchair waltzes, and the wild, screeching music. Who knew how and where they got it from. Sissies peered intently into the low windows, desperate to prove to themselves and each other that they could see something there, even though nothing could be discerned apart from the changing lights. But they were free to get both deaf and blind, and to die of envy. They lay with their noses patiently stuck to the cold grating, blinked in unison with the flashes, and after some time started to truly believe that they did see something.

Grasshopper, wedged between Siamese and Magician, inhaled the colors: now orange, now green, white, blue... and the wailing music. Every time the song rose to a high-pitched squeal he expected that, right at that moment, accompanied by the din and clatter of this beautiful orgy, a senior girl would burst out of the basement window astride a broom and soar into the black sky, trailing sparks and unbridled laughter. It would be Witch, of course.

“I GOT TO RAMBLE, OH, YEAH, BABY, BABY!” the song shrieked.

She would leave a jagged hole in the glass, and then everyone else would fly out of that hole. They would glide down to the ground and then spike right up—one, then another, and another, streaming along the ragged clouds, turning into laughing demons as they went. And the only thing left of them in this world would be their amulets on torn strings. That's what the song was about. The seniors swayed, jerked, flamed in different colors, but remained rooted to the floor. They could not fly away, the basement was holding them, tethering them to itself. There was no one to break the glass for them.