Sketch: Last House on the Street

Wine-dark clouds still churned overhead as the two men approached the last house on the street. The sidewalk cracked and tilted beneath their feet, tectonic plates that rose and slipped and sank into the earth, smothered in tendril snares of garden weeds. The house seemed to stretch away as they drew nearer, like a shrinking afterimage superimposed on the silent forest beyond. Dingy window screens leaked darkness from its plain facade, a wall of flaking paint in purest beige. A lone porchlight cast the door with grey pallor, buzzing quietly into the night.

“They’ve still got lights.”

“Like that matters.”

“It’s something.”

“Let’s just get through this quick. Sick of talking to creeps, man.”

“Right.”

Greg sighed, sinking deeper into his windbreaker. The air was still, drawing heat from deep inside his bones. He looked away from his partner, turning his focus back to the house in front of them. When had it gotten so close?

The steps up to the porch were eternal, their every footfall dull and resonant, as though landing far, far away. Then the door was upon them, monolithic and unyielding.

Greg glanced to his right. Miguel did not meet his eyes, his face settled into its permanent apathy. Greg took a deep breath, reluctantly raising his fist to the door.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Far above, the sky shifted restlessly. Shades of inky black rolled into one another, weaving the tapestry of night forever.

The deadbolt slid open, landing with a metallic toll. The wood of the great door pulled away with a slow, soft creak. Greg looked down.

A single eye peered apprehensively up at them from behind the edge of the door. Small fingers nervously clutched the dense wood. Greg could see hair the color of soil framing one half of a small, round face. A young girl.

“Christ, man–”

Greg kneeled down. The girl stared back at him, sheltering behind the solid oak.

“Hey there.” The girl blinked once, her gaze intense. “Are your parents home?”

Still she stared. Her eyes–at least, the one not hidden by the door–were green, in exactly the way the dying grass was not.

“Jesus dude, give me a break.”

Neither Greg nor the girl acknowledged him. Greg thought for a moment, tilting his head. “What’s your name?”

He could hear the clouds moving above them.

“Kris,” she whispered.

“Hi, Kris. How are you feeling today?”

Greg heard a slow, trembling breath.

“Cold.”

He glanced into the house. The house beyond Kris was as grey as the sky–the lights inside were still dim, though he knew they were getting as much power as they needed. “Would you like a blanket? I have some in my backpack.”

“Okay.”

She did not move.

Greg carefully shrugged the pack off his shoulders, watching Kris closely. He tugged open the largest pocket, reaching an arm inside until he felt soft, warm cloth.

Kris finally broke eye contact, watching instead as the blanket emerged from his backpack. She stared at it, as intensely as ever, as Greg gently offered it towards her. He ignored Miguel’s quiet scoff behind him.

Kris’ vicelike grip on the door relaxed, her hand drifting tentatively until it sank into the plush blanket. She looked back up at Greg.

“There you go.”

She pulled it towards herself, and Greg caught a glimpse of a frail body, dressed in blue and green pajamas. For a long moment, she held it, staring down at Greg’s shoes. Finally, she spoke again.

“You can come in now.”