The House

Still, Delilah stared blankly at him, repeating, “‘Can be’?”


“I mean, it doesn’t hijack onto my clothes,” he said with a little laugh that wasn’t returned. “Though, I think the energy, or whatever it is, can leave, too, through power lines, or through roots in the soil. I’ve tried to figure it out because obviously nothing there can really explain it to me.”

He realized he’d said too much. Delilah had leaned away a little, eyes wide. Growing slightly panicked, Gavin told her, “I’m telling you this because I really like you. And I trust that you won’t. . . won’t tell me I’m crazy.” He ducked low to meet her eyes, weary. “Say something,” he urged, after at least another half a minute had passed.

“But it sounds crazy,” she whispered.

A part of her had to believe it was true. Had she not felt the vine grasping her ankle? What would the human mind do to deceive itself?

“It’s crazy, yes. But the world is full of things that are crazy and wild and unbelievable.” When she didn’t say more, he added, “You of all people know this, Delilah. It’s why you love the idea of demon possession and things coming back to life. Is it so hard to imagine that objects might have life in them, too?”

Delilah looked as if she had been punched in the chest. “How do you know those things about me?”

He tried not to roll his eyes. “Anyone who pays attention knows that about you.”

“No one knows that.”

Gavin raised an eyebrow. “I’m paying attention in a way others aren’t.”

“So let’s say you’re telling the truth and you aren’t crazy. How does it work?” she asked. “Like, does everything. . . talk?”

He shook his head, his skin tingling faintly with the surrealism of the moment. “The things inside are alive, but nothing can speak because nothing has a mouth. Except the television, I suppose. But every single thing is alive. The rooms, the furniture, the paintings.”

“The curtains,” she breathed, playing with her lip.

“Yes, the curtains.”

“And the vines.” Delilah looked all around and down at her feet as if she expected something to have reached up and ensnared her ankle. “Is this why your parents never leave the house?”

He paused, wondering again whether he should lie. He started to, but the words got stuck in his throat, and instead the bare truth came out in a whisper. “I don’t have parents. I’ve been in the house for as long as I can remember.”

Delilah couldn’t process this, it appeared. She blinked a few more times and stared at him with her lips slightly parted. Gavin focused instead on her eyes.

“Where are they?” she asked, voice tight as if her throat was holding back more emotion.

He licked his lips, unable to look at her when he admitted, “I don’t know.”

“So they. . . just left?”

“Yeah. I don’t have any memories of my dad, but my mom. . . I know she was here at some point—there’s a picture—but. . . she left. She left me.”

“But you have food and—”

“I have everything I need,” he told her, because he did. Groceries were delivered each week, the account prepaid by someone—he’d never really thought to check by whom. When he was younger they were left at the front steps, but now Gavin always answered the door. That’s how he’d known Dave from the grocery store. Dave had been stopping by every week for years. How in the hell hadn’t he recognized Gavin? Beyond that, there wasn’t a single physical thing he needed that he didn’t have. Somehow House provided all of it.

“Aren’t you lonely?” she asked.

He shook his head.

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