The House in the Cerulean Sea

by TJ Klune

  Sal is the most reticent of the group. He had been physically abused before his arrival on the island. That much has been clearly documented, though it wasn’t provided in the files I was given. Mr. Parnassus showed me the incident reports signed off by DICOMY on the specific instances. The fact that this happened at all was a travesty. The fact that it happened to a boy who is shy and demure is unacceptable. Sal has been here the shortest amount of time and still has a long way to go before I believe he will be fully recovered. But I think he will, because even though he’s sure to be startled at the smallest of sounds, he is blossoming right before my very eyes. He loves to write, and I’ve been fortunate enough to read some of his work. I expect we’ll see great things from him, given the opportunity. Though it brings me no joy to make the comparison again, a dog will cower until they can cower no more. He needs to be encouraged, not feared.

  You might be wondering, as I’m sure you are, what this has to do with Mr. Parnassus. It has nothing to do with him. It is because of him that these things are possible. This isn’t simply an orphanage. It is a house of healing, and one that I think is necessary. There was a poet, Emma Lazarus, who wrote, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

  You’ll notice, I’m sure, that I haven’t yet mentioned Lucy.

  It’s been two days since I started this report. I have taken my time, given that finding the right words seems to be of the utmost importance. Last night, there was an event. I was awoken from a deep slumber by the strangest of incidents.…

  * * *

  That might have been an understatement.

  Linus gasped awake, shooting up in his bed, hand clutched to his chest, his heart beating rapidly. He was disoriented, unsure of what was happening. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing.

  The house appeared to be shrinking.

  The ceiling overhead was much closer than it’d been when he’d gone to sleep.

  “What on earth?” he exclaimed.

  He heard a meow come from somewhere below him. He looked over the side of the bed, only to see that it wasn’t the house that was shrinking. No, the reason the ceiling looked so much closer was because the bed was floating five feet off the ground.

  “Oh dear,” Linus said, clutching the comforter as Calliope stared up at him, eyes bright in the dark, tail twitching.

  Linus had never been in a floating bed before. He pinched himself quite hard to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  He wasn’t.

  “Oh dear,” he said again.

  And then he heard a low, rumbling roar come from outside the house.

  He pulled the comforter up to his chin as the bed swayed gently. It seemed like the safest option.

  Calliope called up to him again.

  “I know,” he managed to say, voice muffled by the heavy blanket. “It’s probably nothing, right? I should just go back to sleep. That would be best thing for everyone. For all I know, this is something that happens all the time.”

  The bed tilted sharply to the right, and Linus barely managed to shout before he hit the floor, pillows and blankets raining down around him.

  He groaned as he rolled over onto his back.

  Calliope licked his thinning hair. He never understood why cats did that.

  “Well, obviously I’m up now,” he said, staring up at the bed above him. “Might as well see what this is all about. Perhaps it’s just … an earthquake. Yes. An earthquake, and it’s almost over.”

  He pushed himself up from the floor, knocking his head against the bottom of the bed. He rubbed his forehead as he muttered to himself. He managed to find his shoes, which thankfully still appeared to be anchored to the floor. He slipped them on and exited the bedroom, Calliope following close behind him.

  The chair in the living room was floating, spinning lazily in the air. The portable record player flipped on and off. The lights flickered.

  “I can deal with most things,” he whispered to Calliope. “But I believe I’ll draw the line at ghosts. I don’t think I much like the idea of being haunted.”

  That rumbling sound happened again, and he felt it vibrate up through the floors. But it appeared to be coming from outside the house, and though he was loath to do so, he opened the front door.

  The lights were flashing in the main house. He was reminded of the bright orange light he’d seen after Mr. Parnassus had left a few nights before, but it wasn’t the same. It looked as if something was happening inside the main house. And though he wanted nothing more than to shut the door against it and pretend none of this was happening, he stepped off the porch onto the grass.

  And promptly screamed when a hand fell on his shoulder.

  He whirled around to see Zoe standing behind him, a worried look on her face.

  “Why would you do that?” he growled at her. “Are you trying to send me to an early grave? It’s like you get enjoyment out of frightening me!”

  “It’s Lucy,” she said quietly, wings glistening behind her in the moonlight. She looked ethereal. “He’s having a nightmare. You must come at once.”

  * * *

  The children were downstairs in the main house, standing together, staring up at the ceiling. They were huddled around Sal, who had a frown on his face. They all appeared relieved when they saw Linus and Zoe.

  “Everyone all right?” Linus asked. “Anybody hurt?”

  They shook their heads.

  “It happens sometimes,” Phee said, folding her arms across her thin frame. “We know what to do when it does, though it hasn’t happened in months.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s bad!” Chauncey warbled, eyes darting around. “He just … shakes things. Like our rooms. And the entire house.”

  “And just because he can shake the entire house doesn’t mean he wants to hurt us,” Talia said, eyes narrowed.

  Theodore chirped his agreement from his position on Sal’s shoulder.

  “We know he wouldn’t do anything to us,” Sal said quietly. “And it might seem scary, but it’s not his fault. He can’t help who he is.”

  It took Linus a moment to realize what they were doing: They thought he was going to use this against Lucy. Against them. That stung more than Linus expected it would, though he understood. While they might slowly have begun to trust him, he was still a caseworker from DICOMY. He was still here investigating. And this, no matter what it was, wouldn’t look good.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” Linus said, ignoring the pang in his chest. “That’s what’s important.”

  Phee looked troubled. “Of course we’re safe. Lucy wouldn’t do anything to us.”

  “I know that,” Linus said.

  They didn’t seem to believe him.

  There came another roar from up the stairs. It sounded as if something monstrous had awoken.

  Linus sighed. He didn’t know why he decided now was a perfect time to test his mettle. “Stay here with them?” he asked Zoe.

  She looked like she was about to object, but then nodded instead. “If that’s what you want.”

  What Linus wanted was to still be asleep in his bed, but that was out of the question. He said, “It is. Do you think you need to take them out of the house?” He eyed the furniture floating around them warily.

  “No. He won’t harm them.”

  And for reasons Linus couldn’t quite explain, he trusted her. Trusted them.

  He smiled at the children weakly before turning toward the stairs.

  “Mr. Baker!”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  Chauncey waved at him. “I like your pajamas!”

  “Um. Thank you, that’s very— Would you put your arm away? You don’t get tips for paying compliments!”

  Chauncey sighed and dropped his tentacle.

  Talia stroked her beard. “Remember, if you see anything … strange, it’s only a hallucination.”

  He swallowed thickly. “Oh. That’s …
wonderful advice. Much appreciated.”

  She preened.

  The banister on the stairs felt like it was vibrating under his hand as he took step after step. The pictures and paintings on the walls spun in lazy circles. He heard sharp blasts of music—bits and pieces of a dozen different songs that he recognized. There was big band and jazz and rock ’n’ roll and echoes of the day the music died, the Big Bopper and Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens singing around him in ghostly voices.

  He reached the top of the stairs. All the doors aside from the one at the very end were open. He took another step, and they all slammed shut at once. He gasped, taking a step back as the hallway began to twist, the wood creaking. He closed his eyes, counted to three, and opened them again.

  The hallway was as it always was.

  “Okay, old boy,” he muttered to himself. “You can do this.”

  The doors stayed closed as he passed them by, though lights flickered behind them, illuminating the floor in quick bursts. The music was louder as he approached the door at the end, and it was as if every record ever made was being played at the same time, a screeching cacophony of sound that caused Linus’s teeth to rattle in their sockets.

  He had the ridiculous notion of knocking as he reached the last door, but shook his head. He took a deep breath as he put his hand on the knob and twisted it.

  The music died as the door opened.

  Linus thought he caught a flash of orange light out of the corner of his eye, but it faded before he could figure out where it’d come from.

  Lucy’s bedroom door was wide open, hanging slightly off its hinges.

  Lucy himself stood in the center of the room, hands outstretched away from him like wings, digits straining. The records that had adorned his walls circled around him slowly. Some had cracked and splintered. His head had fallen back and his eyes were open, but they were blank and unseeing. His mouth was open, and the cords stuck out from his neck.

  Arthur was kneeling before him, a hand cupped around the back of Lucy’s neck. He glanced at Linus, eyes widening slightly, before he turned back to Lucy. He began to whisper something that Linus couldn’t quite make out, but the tone was soft and soothing. He squeezed Lucy’s neck slightly.

  Linus took a step closer.

  “—and I know you’re scared,” Arthur was saying. “And I know sometimes you see things when you close your eyes that no one should ever see. But there is good in you, Lucifer, overwhelmingly so. I know there is. You are special. You are important. Not just to the others. But to me. There has never been anyone like you before, and I see you for all that you are, and all the things you aren’t. Come home. All I want you to do is come home.”

  Lucy arched his back as if electrified. His mouth opened wider, almost impossibly so. That roaring sound came again, crawling out from his throat. It was dark and twisted, and Lucy’s eyes flashed red, a deep and ancient thing that caused Linus’s skin to crawl.

  But Arthur never let him go.

  Lucy relaxed, slumping forward. Arthur caught him.

  The sashes in the windows stopped fluttering.

  The records fell to the floor, some of them breaking into small pieces that scattered along the floor.

  “Arthur?” Lucy asked, voice breaking. “Arthur? What happened? Where am— Oh. Oh, Arthur.”

  “I’m here,” Arthur said, pulling him into a hug. Lucy buried his face in Arthur’s neck and began to sob, his little body shaking. “I’m here.”

  “It was so bad,” Lucy cried. “I was lost, and there were spiders. I couldn’t find you. Their webs were so big, and I was lost.”

  “But you did find me,” Arthur said lightly. “Because you’re here. And Mr. Baker is here too.”

  “He is?” Lucy sniffled. He turned his face to look over toward the door. His face was blotchy and streaked with tears. “Hello, Mr. Baker. I’m sorry if I woke you. I didn’t mean to.”

  Linus shook his head, struggling to find the right words. “No need for apologies, dear boy. I’m a light sleeper as is.” He was anything but. His mother always said a stampede of wild horses wouldn’t be able to wake him. “I’m just pleased you’re all right. That’s the most important thing of all.”

  Lucy nodded. “I get bad dreams, sometimes.”

  “I do too.”

  “You do?”

  Linus shrugged. “It’s part of being alive, I think. But even if you have bad dreams, you must remember they’re only that: dreams. You will always wake from them. And they will fade, eventually. I’ve found that waking from a bad dream brings a sense of relief unlike anything else in the world. It means what you were seeing wasn’t real.”

  “I broke my records,” Lucy said bitterly. He stepped away from Arthur, wiping an arm across his face. “I loved them so much, and now they’re broken.” He stared pathetically down at the shards of shiny black plastic on the floor.

  “None of that,” Linus admonished. “These were only the ones on your wall, correct?” He walked farther into the room and crouched down next to Lucy, picking up a piece of broken record.

  “Not all of them,” Lucy said. “Some of them were ones I listened to. They were even my favorites.”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  Lucy nodded, staring down at his records.

  Linus picked up another piece. It looked as if it fit with the piece he already had. He pushed them together in front of Lucy. They went together perfectly, making a whole. “When something is broken, you can put it back together. It may not fit quite the same, or work like it did once before, but that doesn’t mean it’s no longer useful. Look, see? A bit of glue and a bit of luck, and it’ll be right as rain. Why, hanging on your wall, you wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference.”

  “But what about the ones I listen to?” Lucy asked with a sniffle. “The ones on the walls were scratched already.”

  Linus hesitated. But before he could think of anything to say, Arthur beat him to it.

  “There is a record store in the village.”

  Linus and Lucy looked up at him. “There is?” Lucy asked.

  Arthur nodded slowly. He had a strange expression on his face. “There is. We could go there, if you’d like.”

  Lucy wiped his eyes again. “Really? You think that’d be okay?”

  “I do,” Arthur said. He stood slowly. “I think that’d be just fine. Perhaps we could make a day of it. All of us.”

  “Even Mr. Baker?”

  “If he’s amenable,” Arthur said, sounding amused. “Perhaps he’d like to pick out records with you, since you both have an affinity for music. Your tastes far exceed my own.”

  Lucy whirled around, face brightening. Linus marveled at the resilience. “Will you go with us, Mr. Baker? We could look at music together!”

  Linus was taken aback. He finally managed to say, “Ye-es, that … that would certainly be doable.”

  “Why don’t you go tell the others they can go back to bed?” Arthur asked. “I’m sure they’ll want to see that you’re okay before they do.”

  Lucy grinned at him, a dazzling thing that caused Linus’s heart to ache. “Okay!” He ran out the door, shouting down the hallway that he wasn’t dead, and that nothing got lit on fire this time, and wasn’t that grand?

  Linus stood back up, knees popping. “Getting old,” he muttered, strangely embarrassed. “Though, I suppose it happens to the best of—”

  “He doesn’t hurt anyone,” Arthur said, voice hard.

  Linus looked up in surprise. Arthur was frowning at him, and that strange expression was back. Linus couldn’t read it at all. And why he was distracted by Arthur’s pajamas, he didn’t know. Arthur wore a pair of shorts, his knees pale and knobby. His shirt was ruffled. He looked younger than ever. And almost lost. “That’s good to hear.”

  “And I know you’ll probably need to put this in your report,” Arthur continued, as if Linus hadn’t spoken at all. “I can’t blame you for that, nor will I try and stop you. But I do ask that you
remember that Lucy has never hurt anyone. He’s … I meant what I said. He’s good. There is so much good in him. But I don’t think he would survive away from here. If this place were to close, or if he were to be removed, I don’t know that he’ll—”

  Linus didn’t think before he reached out and took Arthur by the hand. Their palms slid together, fingers intertwining. Arthur held on tightly. “I understand what you’re saying.”

  Arthur looked relieved.

  But before he could speak, Linus had to finish. “However, even if he’s not a danger to anyone else, what about to himself?”

  Arthur shook his head. “That’s not—”

  “That’s why you keep him here with you, though. Correct? So he’s always within reach should the need arise.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he ever hurt himself?”

  Arthur sighed. “Not—not physically. But he’s an expert in self-flagellation after. If something is broken, no matter who it belongs to, he always carries the guilt upon his shoulders.”

  “Something tells me you know a little about that.”

  Arthur’s lips quirked. “A little.”

  “He seems well enough now.”

  “Regardless of who he is, he’s still a child. They bounce back remarkably. He’ll be fine, I think. At least until the next one.” Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly. “And I’ll be there for that one too.”

  It was a challenge, and one Linus couldn’t meet. Whatever his recommendation would be, it was still up to DICOMY. “You said they didn’t happen often. At least not anymore. And I think I would have noticed something like this during my time here.”

  “I thought—I hoped he was moving past them.” Arthur sounded frustrated.

  “What brought this on, then? Do you know? Did something happen today?”