The Gray House полностью

There might well have been intent behind this. But then, who was the target of it, he or they themselves? What was it supposed to be—a remembrance or a greeting? Something they were afraid they’d forget, or something they wanted to forget but couldn’t? He was gone, but at the same time he was still here. Never before had Ralph encountered the nicks of the dead written on the walls. They were never spoken of again, their things either distributed between the living or destroyed. Closing the gap, that’s what it was called. One night of mournful vigil and then every sign of the person’s existence was erased, especially from the walls. The same thing happened to those who left the domain of the House. They were convinced of the inevitable annihilation awaiting them in the Outsides. The departed were treated the same as the dead, while he’d managed to both move out and still remain embedded in the walls, by their own hands. They must have known he was going to be back. But how could they? How could they be so sure of something that he himself had doubted until the last moment?

Ralph dropped the duffel on the floor and sat on the sofa. Of course they knew. And now I know that they knew. Even though I haven’t really studied the walls yet. They deliberately wrote it so that it caught the eye, so that once I was back I’d see immediately that they were waiting for me.

I might even start acknowledging that they pulled me in, wrapped me in the spell of the letters. Start imagining them dancing around those writings, mumbling incantations and drawing magic sigils. Thinking that the only reason I returned was because they willed me to. I’ve only been here for a couple of minutes and the insanity is already setting in. Or maybe that’s what it takes, that anyone here needs to be at least a little mad? That this place does not tolerate those who aren’t?

He knew he was right, at least somewhat. One couldn’t just walk out of here and then walk back in again. The House might not accept him. This had happened to others, he himself saw it not once and not twice, so he knew what he was talking about. Something might not accept him. It could not be put in words, it could not be subjected to logical analysis, this Something that was the House itself, or maybe its spirit, its essence. He wasn’t looking for the right word, or for any word at all. It was just that, coming back, he knew that the final decision was not up to him. Not to him, not to them, and to Shark least of all. The House would either let him in or it wouldn’t. So maybe it was the House they tried to placate, marking its walls with his initials. To accustom it to the idea of him returning.

“All right,” Ralph said resignedly. “You can consider yourselves thanked.” I wonder what it is they need from me. Or is it just that tradition now demands the sacrifice of a counselor before graduation?

He got up and tried to chase the silly thoughts out of his head. If all they needed was a counselor, they’ve got plenty already, I’m just one more . . . And by the way, no one needs a crazy counselor, not them and not me. He went to the window, tugged at the latch, and opened one of the panes. The cold gust burst into the room, banishing the staleness of the unlived-in space.

The crumpled clouds were hanging level with the top of the window, filling midday with the shadows of an evening-like dusk. He wiped the dust off the windowsill, sat down, and lit a cigarette, relaxing. Then threw away the end and listened. The hallway was alive with voices.

The House songs and whispers . . .

He heard feet thundering past his door, then the wheelchairs squeaking. Ralph moved to the sofa and switched on the radio. Music. He increased the volume.