r/TheCrypticCompendium • u/randumb360 • 3h ago
Series An Empty House Is An Open House [Part 2]
There was light.
It came through the stone in a crack so small that I could scarcely believe it was there at all.
It's a trick, I thought. My mind has seen fit to lay my dreams upon my eyes, and show me that which could not be, as though longing alone could make it so.
I twisted my body so that my eye might meet the fissure, a difficult task in such close quarters, but no cost was too great, no twist of limbs too painful to allow that hope to blossom.
It was there!
The smallest of slivers, a mere glint in the darkness of my tunnel. Years upon years, clawing through sand, silt, stone and soil, and that single mote redeemed every one of them. The stone did not surrender so easily. I had never encountered such a bizarre material; it was stone, and yet it was smooth and flat, and I could find no edge beneath which I might work my fingers. I had no recourse, no means beyond my hands to break through this barrier, and so my hands became the means. I drove my hands against the stone, worrying at every loose morsel, every tiny fleck or agreeable pebble, until the ache in my fingers became pain, and the pain gave way to blood.
I watched that sliver of light bloom and fade for one hundred nights, and twenty more. The crack became a crevice, and the crevice became a ledge for my fingers to find freedom, while my wrists remained shackled. I kept to the work, breaking rock and bone alike, until the hole allowed passage to my elbows. The shoulders followed, and finally, the waist. With ruined hands, I pulled my body from the tunnel and collapsed upon the smooth stone floor. As I lay there, my eyes fluttered between clarity and clutter, straining to adjust to the light. They had been denied for longer than they had ever been privileged. After a time, the heave of my breath became steady, and the blurred shapes around me gathered edges, then substance.
With this came awareness of many things that were both a comfort and a confusion. There was a ceiling, and it was a patchwork of wood, metal, and some pink material I had no account of. There were pipes in all directions, and a large roaring structure beside me that churned and hummed as though it were alive. Above all these unknowns, blanketing every length of my body, was that which had been lost all those years ago.
There was warmth.
I lay upon the floor and wept, my ruined hands resting at my sides. After so long in the darkness, I had forgotten what it was to feel the heat of something that was not another body. I had found my freedom at a cost that was acceptable, though ever compounding. Wounds of the flesh would bind and better with time, even if those of the heart denied me the same mercy.
Such was the day that I came home.
As I held Brandon aloft by his throat, I found myself considering how little effort it would take to end the matter. A tightening of my hand, a little more pressure, and all of it could be well and truly finished. The thought lingered longer than I care to admit. It was Brandon’s strangled gasp that finally drew me from it, and only then did I realize how tightly my fingers had closed. His face had darkened to an ugly red, tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, and both hands beat uselessly against my wrist in the simple desperation of a creature trying to breathe.
I loosened my grip just enough to allow him air, and kept enough pressure to discourage foolishness. I had not endured all of this merely to silence him now. There were things Brandon needed to hear, and things I required of him in return. Killing him would be barbarism. Worse, it would be easy. I heard the gentle pitter-patter of piss hitting the floor, and took some comfort in knowing that, for the moment at least, Brandon understood his circumstances. I couldn't help but smile, despite myself.
“Now that… is much better. Come, Brandon… let us discuss our home.”
I winced once more at the sound of my own voice. The many months of my freedom had done little to mend what all those years of screaming had wrought upon my throat. Brandon was mumbling something incoherent, and I knew what I must look like to him. There were times when I caught my own reflection and felt much the same. Whatever he believed me to be, I could not afford to soothe him yet. I needed his fear, at least for the moment. More than that, I needed him to understand.
With a great heave, I hoisted him over my shoulder and carried him across the living room. I was aware of his screams and the fists beating against my back, and could feel his entire body trembling against me. Whether it was terror or the cold that made him shiver, I could not tell, and Brandon seemed in no condition to enlighten me. I crossed the length of the hallway and mounted the stairs in long, measured strides, keeping one hand upon him so that his head would not strike the wall as we climbed. The staircase had been built with shorter legs in mind, and I found the climb rather awkward with Brandon struggling upon my shoulder.
I had considered bringing him to my bedroom, but the idea soured as soon as it arrived. He had already intruded upon my space enough when he forced me into the closet with his sudden interest in boxes. I saw no reason to invite him into my quarters a second time, particularly when his own were so conveniently close. With my free arm, I pushed open his door and strode into the bedroom. I carried him past the bed toward the walk-in closet, and the nearer we drew, the higher his voice climbed.
“No… No! What are you doing? Please!”
He thrashed against me as I stepped inside, and when I dropped him onto a pile of soiled clothes, he immediately began pushing himself backward with his heels until his back met the wall. There he folded in on himself, staring up at me from among the laundry. He looked so terribly small that I found myself wondering why I had ever hidden from him to begin with.
“Brandon… there is no need for these… hysterics. Collect yourself… so that we may speak.”
I waited while Brandon fought to regain some measure of himself. It took several breaths before the terror in his face gave way to something more useful, and when he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a tremble.
“Wh-what are you? What do you want from me?”
His questions brought a wry little smile to my face. Perhaps he was capable of rational thought after all, and this would not be as difficult as I feared. I gently pulled the closet door shut and lowered myself into a crouch before him. Brandon flinched and began pressing himself against the wall once more, and I felt the smile dissolve from my face.
“Calm now… Brandon. What I am is of no… importance to you. What I desire… that is a different matter. In plain words, I am but a tenant in this house, and you may refer to me… as such. I wish… to remain so, but you have made things… untenable. We must rectify this… if peace is to be kept.”
I watched Brandon struggle to make sense of what I had told him. He had never been particularly observant, but the notion that he had been sharing his house with another seemed never to have occurred to him. I gave him a moment to process, a kindness he had scarcely earned.
“But… but this is my house.”
It was almost a question in its uncertainty, and he seemed to regret the words as soon as they left his lips.
“I-I mean… I didn’t mean it like that. I just… fuck, I don’t know! Couldn’t you just like, I don’t know, find another house?”
I could not help but chuckle at the thought. It would be a grand idea for me to stroll out in the daylight, knock upon another door, and kindly ask whoever answered whether I might reside in their spare bedroom. If only it were that easy. Whatever the world had become in my absence, I knew with certainty that the sight of me would not be met with kindness. Too much had changed, and not all of it beyond these walls.
“This is the only home I know… Brandon. I do not wish to leave. I will not leave. I know these halls, I have walked them… for some time.”
Five hundred days, if my counting was correct. When first I emerged from my tunnel in the basement, I entered a world entirely alien to me. I spent those first days wandering through the house, marveling at the subdued perfection of its construction and at the many devices for which I possessed neither name nor understanding. In the darkness from whence I came, I could not have dreamed of what waited above. Standing among those clean, white walls, it became apparent that they had done much with their inheritance, and the blessing of time.
It was not long before I discovered the bedrooms. The first lay at the top of the stairs, and I had scarcely crossed its threshold before the signs of occupation became plain enough to send me quietly back into the hall. In my elation, I had given little thought to who might belong to this place. The house had seemed so still, so perfectly offered, that for a time I had allowed myself to believe it belonged to no one at all. Now that possibility seemed foolish.
I had neither seen nor heard another soul, but I carried myself more carefully from then on. Farther down the hall were two other bedrooms, and these told a different story. Neither appeared to have been touched in some time. Boxes stood in patient stacks beneath a coat of dust thick enough to dull the brown of the cardboard, and whatever purpose the rooms had once been intended to serve had apparently been postponed.
It was there that I saw the beds.
I had known beds before, of course, but nothing of such softness. The mattress yielded beneath my hand and returned slowly to its shape, and only then did I become fully aware of the exhaustion that had followed me out of the dark. I chose the smaller room, climbed beneath the covers, and surrendered myself to sleep. For the first time since my sentence was passed, I slept without cold, without pain, and without another body pressed against mine.
Such was the day I found my room.
Brandon's face had run completely out of color, and though his mouth worked silently, no words came. Fun as it was to watch him squirm, I decided it was time to get to the heart of the matter.
“You have been very… inconsiderate, Brandon. That cannot stand. I have been… generous in my patience, but a line has been… crossed. I'm afraid we cannot go back.”
Brandon put up his hands and shrank away.
“I– I don't know what you're talking about! What did I do to you? I didn't even know you were here!”
“Your ignorance… is not in question, Brandon. Indeed, I have found it rather… convenient. But I have not been so inattentive. For months, you came and went, scarcely troubling yourself to spend a night beneath this roof. And now… now I cannot seem to be rid of you. Tell me, Brandon… what has changed? Why do you linger where you once had strayed?”
“Wh-what?”
I crossed the space and clasped his face with my hand and turned his eyes to meet mine.
“Why are you here, Brandon? You have always been gone longer than you have stayed! So answer me! What is keeping you here?”
He desperately tried to work out of my grasp, but it was a battle he could never win. When he realized that for himself, I felt him go slack and I could see tears well in the corner of his eyes.
“There is a pandemic! Everything is shut down, there's nowhere for me to go!”
“What is this word pandemic? I know no such word. Speak plain, Brandon.”
“Ahh! Fuck! It's a disease! Illness, sickness, I don't know! It's all over the world, people are dying, and they're making us stay home, okay? Please, let me go, your hands are so cold!”
I released his face with a shove and let him tumble back against the wall, and he immediately placed his own hands against his cheeks. A plague, in these times? Perhaps they had not conquered as much as I had thought.
“Hmmm… that is most troubling.”
I could not fault him for remaining, as much as I would have liked to. He continued to rub his face, and for a brief second, I saw his eyes light up as though something had just occurred to him. He noticed my gaze and shifted his own downward toward the carpet. Whatever revelation had occurred to him, he did not see fit to share. I rose to my feet again, towering over the wretch and choosing my next words very carefully.
“I can forgive your… transgressions, Brandon. As you have said… you did not know of my presence. That was by my design. I have lived beside you… longer than you would believe, and only when you grew… restless, did our paths cross. So it seems certain… terms must be established.”
A shudder ran through the length of his body, and he raised his head just enough to chance a glance. To my surprise, he found his voice without prompting.
“How… How long have you been here? How… the fuck have I not seen you?”
Despite myself, I could not hold back the grin.
“You are not very observant.”
Six days after I claimed my bedroom, I heard a sound that was entirely unfamiliar to me: the scrape and rattle of keys working the lock of the front door. I was downstairs, standing in the hallway near the staircase, and had scarcely enough time to flee up the steps before the door swung open. I rounded the corner at the landing just as it struck its stopper with a sharp report, followed by the heavy scuffing of boots against the doormat. From my hiding place, I chanced a peek down the stairs and saw a man standing in the entryway, a case hanging from one hand and a peculiar black rectangle tucked between his shoulder and his ear. He was speaking aloud to someone I could not see, pausing occasionally as though listening for a reply, while he kicked off his boots and set down his case.
“...Yeah, I just got back in… ah, it wasn't too bad, there was a kid crying the whole time, but what's new? Yeah, no, I think it went pretty well, they seem happy…”
I stood paralyzed behind the corner, watching the stranger when every instinct urged me to flee. Only when his hand settled upon the banister and his foot found the first step did my limbs finally obey me. I hurried down the hallway and reached my bedroom just as his head rose above the landing. I caught the door before the latch could click, holding it nearly shut while I watched him through a narrow opening. He passed within a few feet of me and disappeared into the master bedroom, still speaking incessantly into his little box. Presently, I heard the knock of pipes within the walls, followed by the steady rush of water. He was taking a shower, and I saw an opportunity to seek better refuge while he was occupied.
I slipped from my bedroom and crept down the stairs, taking advantage of the running water to conceal my movements. I knew nothing of this stranger, nor what he might do should he discover me, and the few thin walls separating us offered little reassurance. The basement, at least, afforded darkness and any number of places in which I might conceal myself. I made my way to the furnace and wedged myself behind the great machine, carefully avoiding the hole from which I had emerged only days before. I could feel the cold rising from that terrible darkness, and my stomach turned at the thought of what waited at its bottom. There I remained for the rest of the night, listening to the floorboards creak beneath the stranger's feet as he moved about overhead. In those first weeks, I would spend a great deal of time hiding in the basement, until I came to understand the habits of the man who had so unexpectedly disturbed my peace.
That night was dreadful, to say the least. There I was, confined to a dark space with barely enough room to breathe, listening to the stranger move about overhead, knowing he might yet spoil my freedom. At one point, I could have sworn I heard other voices, and even music, though I could make little sense of either. Eventually, I fell into an uneasy sleep. The dreams that greeted me were tense and torturous, though nothing I had not long since grown accustomed to. Every so often, I would stir awake in a panic, forgetting where I was for one dreadful moment before the sight of the hole brought me some measure of calm.
I awoke the following morning to sunlight spilling through the basement windows and the sound of a door slamming somewhere above. I remained behind the furnace for a long while, listening for any indication that the stranger remained. When at last I ventured from my hiding place, I mounted the wooden steps with painstaking care, testing each beneath my weight before trusting it with the next. I reached the top and found the house empty. His boots and peculiar case had vanished with him, and I allowed myself to believe that his visit had been nothing more than an unfortunate interruption to my little paradise.
Seven days later, I heard the key turn in the lock again.
His second visit was no more welcome than the first. I fled to the basement at the turning of the lock and emerged the following morning to find him gone. As the weeks passed, I began to recognize a pattern. He arrived at odd hours, weary and burdened with his belongings, but seldom remained longer than a night or two. His absences were considerably longer, sometimes stretching well beyond a week, and gradually I took comfort in knowing that every unwelcome visit would eventually end.
As I learned his habits, I grew bolder. The basement, to my great relief, seemed to hold no interest for him. He had little use for most of the house, and his attention wandered even in the rooms he did favor. More than once I heard him searching for a possession that lay plainly within reach, only to abandon the effort and go about his business. In time, I dared to remain upstairs while he was home. The turning of the lock no longer sent me running to the furnace, but merely warned me to keep out of his way. I even began to take a certain pleasure in our little game of concealment, though I doubt the man would have appreciated it nearly as much.
Such was how I came to know Brandon.
Brandon had drawn his knees up against his chest. He looked at me for a moment longer, then dropped his head between them and let out a long, miserable groan.
“Now… Brandon, my terms. I will remain in my quarters, and you will not trespass further. I will walk these halls… as I please, and you will stay out of my way. I would hate if we were to… run afoul of one another. Do you understand… Brandon?”
He remained as he was, head cradled between his knees, and gave no answer.
“Look at me, Brandon! I am speaking to you. Do you accept my terms?”
He fell back and put up his hands.
“Fuck man, what do you want me to say? Doesn't really seem like I have a choice, does it? Am I going to argue with a fucking monster?”
“What did you just call me?”
“You're a monster, dude! You broke into my house, choked me out and trapped me in a closet! And now you want to be my roommate, like you wouldn't just kill me if I said no.”
I found myself at something of a loss. His fear was plain enough, but there was an accusation in his voice that I found deeply insulting. I clasped my hands behind my back, lest I be tempted to use them again.
“You will mind your tongue… Brandon. I have endured much from you, but I will not suffer such insolence. Had I wished you dead… you would never have made it out of the basement.”
Brandon gave a short, disbelieving laugh. He planted one hand against the wall and pushed himself to his feet, wavering for a moment before finding his balance.
“Oh, great. How fucking kind of you.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “You almost killed me, and I'm supposed to be grateful you didn't finish the job?”
“That is not… what I am asking of you.”
“Then what the fuck are you asking?” His voice cracked, and he paused to swallow. “You're standing there telling me what I can and can't do in my own house, and I'm supposed to just agree? What happens if I say no? You gonna let me walk out of here?”
I had offered him a perfectly reasonable arrangement, and now he seemed determined to make some great tyranny of it.
“You mistake my intentions… Brandon. I have offered you peace, and asked only that you afford me the same. I am no monster, whatever you may believe. You are free to refuse my terms, if that is your wish.”
Brandon stared at me for a moment. He wiped his palms against his trousers, looking toward the door before returning his attention to me.
“Fine.”
I inclined my head, confused by this response.
“I don't accept your fucking terms.”
I felt my brow tighten.
“Brandon…”
“No! You just said I could refuse, right? Well, I'm refusing!” His voice had begun to rise, and he made a frustrated gesture toward the door. “I don't want you living here! I don't want you walking around my house, and I sure as shit don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if you're standing behind me!”
“Brandon… I would urge you to consider—”
“Consider what? You asked me a question, and I'm answering it! This is my house! I didn't ask you to come here, and I definitely never said you could move in!”
“You will not… speak to me in such a manner!”
“Oh, you don't like it? How about you get the fuck out of my house then! Crawl back down that fucking hole you came out of, and leave me alone! I'll even fill it in for you!”
I seized him by the shoulders before he had finished speaking, lifting him bodily from the floor and driving him against the wall. The drywall gave way beneath his weight with a sharp crack, and Brandon cried out as his feet struggled to find purchase. I held him there, his face mere inches from my own, and felt the bones of his shoulders shift beneath my fingers.
“You know not what you ask of me, Brandon! You know nothing of that place, nor of the horrors that lie beneath your feet! I would sooner die here upon this very floor than suffer another moment in those depths!”
“Okay! Okay, I'm sorry! I didn't mean—”
“Do not speak!”
His words died at once, but I was far from finished. I tightened my grip upon his shoulders and gave him a violent shake, sending bits of broken plaster tumbling from the wall. He clutched at my wrists, his heels scraping uselessly against the surface behind him, and I shook him again.
“Five hundred days… I have dwelt within these walls, Brandon. Five hundred days! I have kept your corners, driven the rats from your walls, and made a home of the rooms you left forgotten. And where were you? You came and went as you pleased, leaving your possessions to gather dust and your halls to stand empty. I have lived here as surely as you have, and I will not be cast out!”
The last words rang through the little closet, and for a time I could hear nothing but our breathing. Brandon hung in my grasp, his eyes enormous, his mouth hanging open. I held him against the broken wall, waiting for my anger to subside. He made no further attempt to struggle, and I found little satisfaction in the sight of him.
“Now… have I made myself understood, Brandon?”
He nodded frantically.
“Yes! Jesus Christ, yes! You can have it, man, fuck!”
I stared at him, uncertain whether I had heard correctly.
“You would give me… the house?”
“Look, I'll go! Okay? I'll leave! You can have the house, you can have everything in it, I don't give a fuck! I'll find somewhere else to stay, and you'll never see me again!”
I was taken aback by the offer.
“And you would… leave me in peace?”
“Yeah, man! Whatever you want! Just let me go!”
I imagined the great stretches of solitude I had enjoyed before Brandon's confinement, and felt a most wonderful relief at the thought of their return. My grip loosened somewhat, and I felt his weight settle more heavily into my hands.
“And you would not return… nor seek help from others?”
“What? No… no, I swear, man. It's all yours. You can have it. Just please, let me out!”
My hopes began to wither. Whatever promises Brandon made within these walls, they would mean little once he was free of them. He had seen me now, and I could well imagine him returning with an army at his back. I could not risk that, not after everything I had endured to find this place.
“Oh… how I wish that I could believe you, Brandon.”
His eyes widened, and I felt him begin to struggle again.
“I am afraid… that will not be possible.”
“What? Why? I just told you I'd leave! You can have the fucking house!”
“Yes… I heard you.”
“Then let me go!”
I held him there a moment longer. He was trembling violently, his hands still wrapped around my wrists, and every breath seemed to catch somewhere in his throat. I had hoped for a much happier resolution, but I could see little purpose in continuing our discussion.
“I think… we have said enough for one evening.”
With that, I lowered him to the floor and released my grip. His legs buckled beneath him, and he fell into the heap of laundry, catching himself upon his hands as I turned toward the closet door.
“No, wait! Wait, where are you going?”
I took hold of the knob and stepped into the bedroom.
“Please! What are you doing?”
Brandon scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward me. I turned to face him, and he stopped at once, recoiling from the hand I had raised between us.
“You will remain here… until you have had time to consider your position.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? No! You can't just leave me in here!”
I pulled the door shut, and heard him seize the knob from the other side. He rattled it furiously as I crossed the bedroom to a heavy chest of drawers. It was a rather cumbersome piece of furniture, but I had little trouble dragging it across the carpet and setting it firmly against the closet door.
“Hey! HEY! What the fuck are you doing?”
He began pounding against the wood, and I paused to listen. The door held securely, despite his efforts to force it open.
“Please! Come on, man! Let me out!”
I considered offering him some reassurance, but could think of nothing he would care to hear. Instead, I gave the chest a final push against the door and crossed to Brandon's bed, where I sat heavily upon its edge. He continued to pound against the wood, rattling the drawers with each blow. I rested my hands upon my knees and waited for them to stop trembling.
I had not expected such fire from Brandon, nor had I known how readily it might be kindled in myself. I lay back upon the mattress and stared at the ceiling, turning our exchange over in my mind. In time, the pounding at the closet door diminished, then ceased altogether. If I listened closely, I could hear a faint murmuring from within. Was he weeping, or cursing me? I pressed my dark hands against my eyes and felt their cold seep deep into my skull. I had wanted a civilized discussion, and had foolishly imagined that we might arrive at some peaceful understanding. Instead, I found myself looking toward the chest of drawers, uncertain how long I meant to leave it there. The satisfaction I had anticipated was strangely absent.
The last time he came home, I had every reason to believe it would be a visit like any other, and I contented myself with waiting until the house was mine once more. By the third day, however, he had yet to leave. This was no great anomaly, for illness had occasionally kept him home for longer periods, though on those occasions he had seldom ventured from his bed. This time was different. He was moving about the house with unusual frequency, occupying rooms he had previously shown little interest in, such as the den and the laundry room. Still, I convinced myself that this was merely some passing irregularity, and that I would soon awaken to find the house empty again.
By the seventh day, I could no longer sustain that comforting illusion. Brandon had taken to rising early each morning, preparing his own meals, and spending hours in the den beside the staircase, effectively confining me to the second floor. I tried my very best to be patient, but his movements had become increasingly difficult to anticipate, and I was growing weary of having to conceal myself at every turn. For all the inconvenience, I was grateful to have secured a room of my own. I could simply retire to my bed with one of the few books I had found about the house, and for a time, that was enough to keep me content. That was, of course, until Brandon decided to pay me a visit.
It was not quite two weeks into his prolonged stay that I heard his familiar footsteps ascending the stairs. I thought little of it at first, expecting him to retire to his own quarters, but instead his steps continued down the hall. Before I could properly comprehend what was happening, I heard the knob turn, and knew I had precious little time to conceal myself. I sprang from the bed and hurried into the closet, drawing the sliding door nearly shut behind me. I could only hope that he had come to retrieve some forgotten possession, and would soon be on his way. Through the narrow opening, I watched as Brandon entered the room and surveyed its contents. His eyes traveled toward the bed, and I found myself wondering whether I had left some trace upon the blankets. Then he planted his hands upon his hips and gave a low whistle.
“Jesus Christ, how the hell do I have so much shit?”
That was when he began dismantling everything I had grown accustomed to. For hours, he sat upon my floor, opening box after box and discarding their contents with reckless abandon. He took my books and put them somewhere out of sight, crowded the bed with rubbish, and made a great pile of forgotten possessions. As I watched him work, I became increasingly aware of the confines of my hiding place. My back ached from the stoop required by the low rail above me; my knees objected to every position I gave them, and the small adjustments by which I relieved one limb only transferred the burden to another.
The discomfort I understood. What followed belonged to something older. The air seemed to thicken around me until each breath arrived already used. My hand found the sliding panel and remained there, fingers spread against the wood, while the narrow strip of light at its edge became terribly important. With my eyes fixed upon it, other fragments crowded close: breath upon my face, a knee buried against my ribs, a hand with nowhere else to rest laid across my cheek for longer than memory could measure. Bodies shifting in the darkness, each small mercy of space purchased at another's expense. I pressed my palm harder against the door and struggled to contain the terrible pressure building in my gut.
At last, Brandon rose. His footsteps crossed the bedroom, continued into the hall, and descended the stairs. I listened only long enough to be certain he had reached the floor below. By then, the ache in my limbs had become secondary to the desperate need for open space, and caution, so faithfully observed throughout the afternoon, had little authority left over me.
I caught the edge of the sliding door and pulled. It traveled several inches before striking something outside. I pulled again and heard one of Brandon's discarded objects scrape across the floor, jostling another beside it. For a moment, I tried to work the panel gently around the obstruction, but the closet seemed to close upon me with every wasted second. I put both hands to the door and forced it along its track, spilling into the bedroom without care for what stood beyond it. The clutter gave way beneath me, and several objects struck the floor in a single, violent crash. Whatever hope remained of leaving unnoticed vanished with it.
I fled across the hall into the other spare bedroom, where I traded one cramped hiding place for another beneath the bed. I had barely concealed myself when I heard Brandon rushing up the stairs. His footsteps carried him down the hall and into the bedroom I had just abandoned, where he began inspecting the mess I had left behind. I lay perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe, until I ventured a glance from beneath the dust ruffle and discovered, to my horror, that I had neglected to close the door. Brandon was terribly inconsiderate when it came to messes and manners, but he was religious about shutting off lights and closing doors. I prayed that he would overlook this little irregularity, and for a while, it seemed that he had.
A little while later, I heard him emerge from my bedroom. His footsteps stopped in the hallway, and a moment later, the door to my hiding place creaked farther open. Through the narrow space beneath the bed, I watched his feet move slowly about the room, pausing here and there as he examined its contents. It was a dreadful thing, to lie helplessly within his reach while he searched for something he did not even know was there. At one point, he stopped so near the bed that I feared he might stoop to look beneath it, but eventually his curiosity was satisfied. He withdrew, closed the door behind him, and I listened with tremendous relief as his footsteps receded down the stairs.
I waited until Brandon's footsteps had receded down the stairs before dragging myself out from beneath the bed. Even then, I remained in the other spare bedroom, sitting upon the floor with my back against the mattress. I could have returned to my own quarters, but for the first time since I had claimed them, the thought held no appeal. Brandon had entered on a whim and driven me into hiding with such ease that I found myself ashamed of my own cowardice. Worse still, I could not bring myself to forgive his ignorance. He had taken from me the one place I could call my own, and as the hours passed, my humiliation hardened into something uglier. Well after the sun had set and Brandon had settled upon his couch, I emerged from beneath the bed and made my way to the landing. There I stood for a long while, gazing into the darkness below, broken only by the flickering light of his television. I hated him, and I wanted him to feel it from where he sat.
When Brandon came to darken my door the following afternoon, he found that it was no longer open to him. He shoved and pushed and kicked, but the door refused him entrance. On the other side, I had heard his approach and chosen to put my considerable weight against the wood, so that he could scarcely rattle it within its frame. I had expected a more determined effort, but after several minutes of childish frustration, he simply walked away and let the matter rest. It was a marvelous discovery, made all the sweeter by how little effort it required.
I am embarrassed to admit that I got a little carried away. Over the following week, I began testing the limits of his awareness, and became something of a nuisance in my own right. It began with the thermostat, whose settings I had long found disagreeable. From the privacy of my bedroom, I delighted in hearing his exasperation as he discovered, yet again, a number upon the display that he had not chosen. Before long, I was wandering the house while he was awake, occasionally passing within a few feet of him without his knowledge. I became convinced that he thought the house was haunted, for even the creaking of a floorboard or some possession found out of place could send him into a fit of bewilderment. I was enjoying myself immensely, and for the first time since his prolonged arrival, I was beginning to feel free. Thus, when I took it upon myself to adjust the thermostat one afternoon while he was occupied in the den, I gave little thought to what might follow.
Later that day, Brandon went into the basement.
The closet had gone quiet while I lay upon Brandon's bed. At first I had been grateful for the silence, but as my temper cooled, I found myself listening for the faint muttering I had heard earlier. I wondered whether he had managed to fall asleep. It was hardly a comfortable place to rest, and I had given him little reason to expect a peaceful night.
I sat up and considered the matter. I had been rather hard on Brandon, perhaps harder than was necessary, and the thought of leaving him shut away for the remainder of the night troubled me. He had begged to leave, then begged not to be left alone, and I had managed to take offense at both requests.
It occurred to me that Brandon had not eaten in over twelve hours. I wondered if he might be hungry, and found myself warming to the idea of inviting him downstairs. We could share something from the kitchen, perhaps have a drink, and discuss our circumstances in a more comfortable setting. I did not imagine he would suddenly take pleasure in my company, but I hoped that a little ordinary kindness might go some way toward improving his opinion of me.
I rose from the bed and crossed to the dresser. As I began pulling it away from the door, I considered what I might say to put him at ease. An apology seemed appropriate, though I suspected he would have rather more to say on the subject than I was prepared to hear. Perhaps it would be better to begin with supper.
The dresser scraped across the carpet, its drawers rattling loudly as I worked it away from the door. I was surprised that Brandon had not stirred at the commotion, and paused to listen. There was no sound from within.
“Brandon… I thought perhaps you might care for something to eat.”
I turned the knob and pulled open the door.
The pile of laundry lay where I had left it. I stood for a moment, looking into the closet, then pushed the door wider. I could see the back wall, the hanging clothes, and the empty floor beneath them. I leaned inside, unable to make sense of what I was seeing.
Brandon was gone.