The Wall People
“I often think of teeth, of their length, density, and sheen as the measure of a being’s soul. Take length, for example, the people in the walls have teeth much longer than ours and they are quite wicked people.”
“But, Grandfather, you told me the wall people were there to protect us.”
“Yes, I forced them to, when you were very young.”
“But, why would we trust wicked people to protect us?”
The old grandfather sighed, the gold and green afghan over his legs and belly rose and fell. The crackling fire cast an orange glow on his cheeks and danced in miniature in his eyeglasses. Around the two, young and old, the dark study was as vast and unknown as the black forests outside, and as unwelcoming.
“Protecting us is their punishment. And if they don’t take their punishment,” the old man wriggled up slightly in his chair, “they will be destroyed.” He said the last bit louder, the house creaked and groaned in response and, for the boy, the dark study was no longer a vast expanse, but a prison. He clutched his grandfather’s legs.
“When will the lights come back on?” The boy watched his grandfather’s face. He knew, though he was young, that eyes were the measure of the soul, not the teeth. His grandfather pushed his glasses up on his forehead.
“I have no idea, the storm is quite bad and our tree is certainly not the only one to have fallen.”
“Which tree fell? May I look at it before bed?”
“Of course not. Downed power lines are dangerous.” He nudged the boy away from his legs and the boy moved closer to the fire. The grandfather let the afghan drop to the floor revealing one leg in brown trousers, the other in a crude metal prosthetic from the knee down. He gripped the armrests and pushed himself up from the chair with a grunt. From a small table next to the chair he took a flashlight, with the other he reached back for the boy. A small hand grasped his and he started to carefully walk around the chair. There was a clear path to the door, if he could only find it. His prosthetic clanged against a small table and rattled the pictures there. Pictures of the boy’s parents and his sister. The boy looked away, even though he couldn’t see their faces in the dark. They’d left him because they feared the wall people, his grandfather had told him, but they couldn’t afford to take both of the children. His sister was too young for the old man to handle at the time, so they took her and left him behind. He didn’t remember any of them, just colors, familiar scents.”
The grandfather bumped another table.
“Grandfather?”
“Oh, I’m alright, boy, don’t you worry.”
“If the wall people don’t take their punishment, will you have to kill them?” Away from the crackling fire, he realized how noisy the storm was. The old house creaked in the wind and the rain pounded the windows.
“I would, I imagine.” He found his way and led the boy along the soft carpeted path. They left the study, the boy closing the door behind them as Grandfather liked him to do. The hallway was dark and windowless, but the boy knew to stay on the rug path. If he strayed, he might bump one of tables full of glass nicknacks. If one broke, the wall people would know where he was and he would hear them jostling and whispering on the other side of the paneling. He heard them sometimes, shuffling along with him as he walked through the big, old house. He could hear them grinding their teeth as they watched him in the bath from the hole above the faucet. They had always been there, ever since he could remember.
“Grandfather, you didn’t tell me which tree fell, the oak or the ash?”
“The one by the power lines. I don’t know which tree that is.”
“You didn’t see it though?”
“No. For heaven’s sake, what difference does that make? What other reason could there be for a power outage?”
“None, I guess.” He didn’t know that though. He didn’t know fully what ‘power’ was, so he didn’t know what could put it out.
They moved quickly down the long hallway. The flashlight bobbed and bounced along the cream and crimson path. Wind whipped the house and whistled under doorways.
“What do the wall people look like?”
“Oh, well, they’re hideous. Quite misshapen. Some are missing limbs, some have extra digits. Some are eyeless. And as I have said, they have large, pointed teeth.”
“How did they get misshapen?”
“Well, because they’re wicked.”
“You’re missing a leg, though, and you’re not wicked.” The house suddenly rumbled around them, drowning out his grandfather's response. The noise traveled down the hall above them. Wind whistled through a door to his left. Ahead of them the dim flashlight picked up the dark maw of the foyer. They were halfway to the boy’s bedroom. His grandfather told him often that his bedroom was the one place in the house where the wall people could not go. The panel walls had been covered in sheetmetal, the ceiling too, was protected by steel. His room gleamed like a vault in his grandfather’s old manse.
The noise of the storm was so loud in the sheltered hallway, the boy expected it to be unbearable in the open foyer. But, when he stepped out under the high, arched ceiling, the glass front door was dry and the ash tree beside it was standing, and still.
“Grandfather-“ A great crash of thunder rumbled the house and a spray of water hit the door. They crossed the tiled entryway and the thunder died down.
“What did the wall people do to get punished?”
“You’re too young for that story. I don’t want you to have nightmares.”
“I already have nightmares,” the boy said, his grandfather did not respond. More water splashed the door and wind whistled somewhere to the right.
“Let’s move along,” his grandfather said finally. In the center of the foyer a grand staircase curved up to the upper floors. The boy’s bedroom was on the third. The top.
“How would you kill the wall people, if you had to?”
“I suspect I’d need a weapon. They can be killed as easily as anything else I suppose.”
“Do you think they know you aren’t ready to kill them if they’re bad?” The boy watched the old man’s shoulders stoop in the dim circle of light.
“Let’s get you to bed,” the old man said. And the boy wondered if he was wrong, and maybe the voice was the measure of the soul.
They ascended the rest of the staircase in silence. The storm pursued them up the stairs. Its rhythm (crash, rumble, shake, splash) never faltered. Battery operated emergency lights buzzed a sick green path to the end of the third floor hall where the boy slept.
“Grandfather, please tell me what they did?” The boy ran in front of the old man and blocked the path.
“You’re too young,” he pushed the boy aside. “We must get to safety.”
“It’s just a storm, right? We never had to get to safety for a storm before.”
The old man stopped abruptly and the boy bumped into him.
“Kindly stop asking questions, you are making a pain of yourself.” He straightened, hurrying down the hall.
“But, Grandfather,” the boy called after him, running to catch up.
“Not now.” The old man stood at the the door to the boy’s room. The door was steel with a porthole like window and a huge padlock over the door handle. The old man patted his trouser pockets. “Blast, where is that key.”
The boy stood next to him, watching the panic spread from his belly into his face and down his shaking limbs.
“I can’t find the key,” he said, despair edged his voice as he looked wildly around the hall. The boy stood still.
“Why are you so afraid?” He took hold of the old man’s shaky hand. The old man froze and looked down into the boy’s gaze. His eyes were wide as moons.
“They stole your aunt, Margie, when she was just a girl. I negotiated with them. They agreed to return her, and I agreed not to burn the house down around them. They have nowhere to go, they can’t live in the light. They don’t know how to live among people.”
“Why did everyone else leave us if the wall people were under your control?”
“Leave us?” The old man started searching his pockets again, as if the key may have materialized since last he looked.
“You said Mom and Dad and Auntie and Grandma all left because of the wall people.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think that makes sense.” The boy walked around the old man. He spun to find the boy leaning against the door to his room.
“What are you doing?” The old man was shaking, his eyes shifted from the boy to the hall. The boy pulled the key out of his pocket. The old man snatched at it, but he was too slow, the boy slid out of his grasp. The storm quieted. The air in the hallway was still, a held breath.
“Fine, the deal was the wall people could eat one person a year. It’s all they need. Sometimes I couldn’t find another victim and family were the only people around. They took your father first because we assumed the women would be easy to control,” he knocked his metal leg, “but your mother was quite a fighter.” He snatched at the key again, “Please forgive me.”
The boy raised his leg and shot his foot out at the old man’s knee, it gave with a sickening crack. The old man screamed, the walls rumbled. The boy turned and unlocked the door, slipping inside and locking another padlock on the other side. Through the steel door he could hear screams, but they didn’t last very long. In the morning he would burn the house down. Tonight, he would listen to long teeth scraping marrow from bone.