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The House was an island. An island of brick and wood and glass surrounded by an ocean. The sea lapped up against the Grey

House on all sides, and John liked to imagine what it looked like from the outside. Did it bob upon the waves or was it rooted

A beautiful grey mist rolled across the two floors of the House and through its nearly twenty rooms, and down the wide, ornate

staircase that splashed down into the foyer. As if in response to such ostentatiousness, there was on the far side of the

house a narrow set of stairs that led to the cellar, which was dark and trailed through with relief and sorrow. On very rare

occasions, he’d hear whispers reverberating through the halls and treacherous footsteps creaking the floorboards, and he would

retreat into the cellar and remain until long after the intruders had gone away, after which he would find comfort in his

favorite room, a room painted, from floorboards to ceiling, a deep indigo. In addition to the Indigo Room’s curious coloring,

there lingered in the air a light fragrance and it was here that he would hover, eyes closed and mouth curved in blissful

contentment, until the comforting scent of apple and vanilla dissipated.

Though it occurred to John that there must have been a Before, he had no memory of existence outside of the House. There was

no Past to replay, no Future for which to worry. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.

The House provided all.

When he was hungry, a scrumptious feast would appear in the dining room on a table draped with a lace tablecloth and set with

blue and white china and silver, plates of juicy meats and herb-seasoned grains and brightly colored vegetables and hearty,

garlicky stews and puff pastries.

When he was tired of being, he slept upon beds with mattresses stuffed with feathers beneath clouds of down-filled duvets,

which he would hug tightly as he smiled himself to sleep.

When he felt curious about the House and its secrets, he’d visit a small room lined with empty shelves and cabinets and he’d

stand very close to the wall on his right side. He’d listen and he’d wait, though he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was

listening or waiting for. And yet this wall consoled him, made him feel part of something, whatever this something was.

When he felt as if he were the only creature in the world, he would pat the House’s worn walls and squeeze the lustrous banisters

and would repeat simply, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” acknowledging its sentience, its care.

For the House loved him, and you could never be alone if something loved you back.

And so John lived in this House that was an island of brick and wood and glass and surrounded by an ocean.

And John was home.

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One of John’s favorite things to do was gaze outside the windows, of which there were a multitude. He appreciated the windows

because the views from the windows changed. And the reason the views changed was because every window overlooked a vast ocean

that stretched in all directions. Above this ocean there was an absence of sky, a white nothing.

The best thing about the ocean was what it held.

A sofa chair, a fully opened circus tent, a lacquered wardrobe inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl—anything might drift by.

Sometimes the objects floated on the ocean’s surface—a metal pushcart, a silver laptop, a yellow life jacket, tiny bottles of wine, a suitcase—and sometimes the objects lay submerged, as if trying to pass by stealth.

The latter tended to be archaic or even confusing in nature—a wooden wheel, an iron gate, some strange stringed instrument, a colossal bone the length of five doors laid end to end.

But nothing had ever bumped against the House, so when a loud scraping rent through the quietude, he ran to the window and

drew close to the glass, just barely noting a low drone. Outside below, a red metal sheet shone sleek, yet it was partially

crumpled. But before he could make further observation, it disappeared beneath the waves. As he turned away, something tiny

and flat bobbed to the surface: black glass bordered by silver. A mobile. He stilled.

His mobile.

In the House, never did he think of his comforts as his things; they were graciously provided. But this. This .

He leaned forward until his head pushed against the glass. The pane vibrated with a surprising buzz, an oscillation that seemed

to shoot from the walls, or perhaps from the House itself.

It felt like a warning.

He jerked back his head but new objects pulled him forward: beside his mobile, a pair of black dress shoes and a stiff-collared

shirt and trainers—

He cried out and pressed his head against the glass and laughed with a choking sob because those are my things, my things! He wanted to pluck them from the water, wanted to... to...

To what? No, no... this wasn’t right.

His elation gave way to resignation, because what did those things even matter? He had all he ever needed, all he ever wanted,

here in the House.

In the House.

Nothing and nowhere could ever matter so much as this, here, now.

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The body rode the wave like a lost tree branch.

John leaned forward. The body approached from the right and in a few moments would be passing the window.

A dark-brown-skinned woman came into view, diminutive and wrapped in fabric. Her eyes were closed and red hair swirled around

her ashen face.

He drew as close as he could to the glass and felt a slight buffering as he heard the humming of the window, a buzzing from

the House itself. A protest. But he didn’t pull away. The woman rolled over. She was passing just beneath the window, and

John felt the pane’s thrumming resistance.

She rolled again. Opened her eyes. Wide, incredulous eyes.

And then she disappeared from view. John strained to catch another glimpse, his forehead pushing against the force of the

glass, which gave a high-pitched wail as it buffeted back his skull. He was nervous and afraid and she was someone important—he

knew this more than he’d ever known anything. He searched for a window latch, but there was none.

The House rumbled and the glass shook.

John patted the windowsill. “I’m here,” he said. “It’s all right.” Because perhaps the House was upset by the strange visitation.

“It’s all right.”

But the shaking continued and a foggy haze seeped up from the edges of the window frame, thicker and darker than the grey

mist that usually moved through the House, and John stepped back. He threw a furtive gaze toward the ocean, which held no

trace of his things or the mystery woman.

John made his way down the main staircase. There were intruders in the house again. Judging from their footfalls, they weren’t

a large group, but still he felt a low-grade vexation of being imposed upon, and made to retreat to the upstairs.

Just as he reached the second floor he was met with a blinding white flash and a thundering of footsteps.

Panicked, John froze. The footsteps seemed everywhere now; he was utterly surrounded.

He hadn’t interacted with anyone in...

he couldn’t say. In the House, time had never been a thought, but now time was creeping into his consciousness, along with an awareness of the world he’d left behind.

Dark fog poured from the crown mouldings, the floor mouldings, the cracks between the stairs and floorboards. There was another

bright white light, and the fog, rolling and dark and dense around the staircase, lit up like a thundercloud.

Go away! John willed.

As he stood on the staircase, the fog rose nearly up to his knees, and in the pit of his stomach something stirred. Dread.

The air was laden with a strange musty odor, a horrible commingling of brine and mildew and copper, and the roiling fog was

causing a strange burning sensation against his legs. He took a step to ascend the staircase and the fog stilled. He took

a step to descend and the fog churned again, licks of it wrapping around his legs, and he waved and kicked to no avail.

Below, at the very foot of the staircase, three faded faces stared up at him.

“OhmahGod ohmahGod—”

“What the fuuuuuck!”

Away, away.

“I told you, they said this place was haunted—”

“Do it do it!”

Click.

Bright white light.

A camera. Someone had taken a picture of him.

“Just a smudge! There’s nothing!”

Click. White flash.

These lights and sounds and... humans... were from another world, a painful existence.

A low moan sounded from his right.

Blue-black fog billowed from the floorboards to encircle him, and from the dark mass, a fog man, a Grey Man devoid of detail, a broad-stroked body and a head with a yawning hole of a mouth beneath two dark, undulating hollows for eyes.

John didn’t know from where this creature had come, but it felt ancient, and it claimed the House as its own. Perhaps it had

always been here.

No. This was John’s House, John’s home.

It approached menacingly and John, who couldn’t bear to look upon its terrifying visage, cried out and turned away. He felt

the weight of an incredible sadness just as he felt deeply the creature’s fury, a hatred that degraded the House. He wasn’t

sure what emotion belonged to himself or to this creature or if it was something pervading the air, a vaporized sorrow. But

of one thing he was certain:

The Grey Man wanted John out .

The creature rushed toward him with a growl and stretched out an arm and John retreated, recoiling when a vibration slammed

against his back. The main door of the House.

The Grey Man and his outstretched arm grew closer, and with him, an increased sense of indignation, of contempt and loathing...

The vibration behind John increased—

Crackled.

Snapped .

Everything shivered and brightened...

A moment of stillness.

And then the sensation of falling, as John plummeted from home.

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Space.

Time.

A spinning universe, the sense of loss so profound it had a taste, bitter and sour.