Page 141 of The Pansy Paradox
“Damn.” Henry pulls a handkerchief from a pocket. With a hand on my shoulder, he steadies me and presses the cloth gently against my nose. It’s unbearably soft, and he’s unbearably tender. He pauses in his ministrations, chin lifted. “I don’t like the way the air is changing.”
I feel it, too. Beneath the sudden and seductive scent of chocolate chip cookies, a dry crackle of static.
“Something’s coming.” Henry shoves the handkerchief into his pocket and grips my hand again. “But I can’t tell from where.”
Neither can I. Or rather, I can’t until I glance toward the entrance of the development. The Camelot Lots sign has been obliterated. The gate no longer exists. Nothing exists except a dark gray mass.
“There,” I say, and point, my voice thin and reedy. I turn toward the fence that borders the cemetery, but that’s gone, too, along with the headstones and oaks. The void creeps closer, gaining speed, and the only thing that remains is the structure behind us.
Henry nods toward the showcase home. “It’s our only option.”
“If we can’t get in?”
“Cover me.” He unslings his umbrella and hands it to me. “I’ll pick the lock.”
We bolt, that gray mass to our backs, so thick and so solid, it’s like a tidal wave. I can’t even tell if these are Screamers or something else entirely. All I know is, this thing will consume us the first chance it gets.
Henry crouches at the front door, pulling out lock picks—of course he brought the lock picks—and works the lock. I stand, my back to him, reassured by his warmth against my legs. With a flick, I unfurl both umbrellas. They open with a pop that establishes a connection immediately, clearing a space around the door.
I peer through the gap between my umbrella and Henry’s. I can’t see across the street or even to the end of the front walk. Our world has shrunk to the span of two umbrellas, a wooden porch, and a tattered welcome mat beneath our feet. Everything else is painted in gray ash.
The fabric of our umbrellas shakes as if enduring gale-force winds. I clutch the handles, palms sweat-slicked and unsure. Worry batters my mind in time to the wind—rips, tears, the material stripped away, leaving nothing but naked spokes. I can’t turn to gauge Henry’s progress. I can’t hold on much longer. I can’t?—
I tumble backward. Henry pulls me the rest of the way into the house and slams the door. He throws the deadbolt, for all the good that will do.
But maybe it helps. The space around us is quiet, if unsettling, the way abandoned spaces often are. And certainly, this house has never been lived in, has never truly been someone’s home. I collapse both umbrellas and offer him his. In turn, he offers his hand and helps me stand.
He’s still on high alert, peering into the rooms both to our left and right and then up a grand, sweeping staircase. “We shouldn’t assume we’re safe.”
No, we shouldn’t. He hits a light switch on the wall, but nothing happens. From his pack, he pulls out a flashlight.
Before he can turn it on, I say, “Wait a minute.”
There’s enough ambient light to navigate around the larger pieces of furniture. In the front room, curtains blanket a large picture window. My fingers find the center, and I pull back one side so we can peer through the glass. It’s like a blizzard of ash outside, the world cast in tones of gray and sepia.
Henry comes to stand behind me, a steady hand on my shoulder, as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away through the window and into the nothing beyond.
“It’s like the sandstorm,” he says. “In the Sahara.”
I plant a cautious hand against the glass. Henry’s grip tightens.
“Is there anything out there?” I squint, but I can’t see a thing. No evidence of the gate, a road, or even the porch where we stood.
“I don’t know,” Henry says.
“It’s like…” I pause, trying to find the words to describe not so much what I’m seeing but what I’m feeling. “It’s like there’s an absence of everything, like nothing exists.” Not even us, I want to add, but find that I can’t.
“Perhaps it’s merely a storm, and we simply need to ride it out.”
I let the curtain fall, and the relief that washes over me comes out with a sigh.
“We can check periodically,” he says, “to see if the storm is subsiding, but in the meantime, I think we should conduct a search, see how secure this space is.”
So we do, from basement to attic, our flashlights carving a path in front of us. The pantry holds nothing but empty boxes meant to resemble a stocked larder. The comforter on the king-size bed in the master suite hides a bare mattress. And while you could do laps in the Jacuzzi tub, to quote Mortimer, it’s clear no one has ever taken a bath in it. The closets hold nothing, not even skeletons. The basement is too dry and clean for ghouls.
But that’s where we pause to inspect that egress window and the fissure that runs beneath the foundation. Both of us run our hands along the walls and floor. A light coating of dust sticks to my skin, but that’s all I feel.
“Are we inside the fissure?” I’m on my hands and knees, working my fingers into the seam between floor and wall, the egress window a menacing rectangle above me.
