The House of Grey- Volume 3

by Earl, Collin

  He looked down at his phone again and was irritated when he found his address book pulled up. He did not have many names in there. Artorius, Casey, Cyann, the Taris “My Princess” designation he had never gotten around to changing, and Molly who was under Alison, her middle name. He had entered her as Alison on the off-chance that she might see it. It was really fun to annoy her.

  He, Monson Grey, a scarred, unimportant, semi-intelligent boy, had a total of five people in his phone. Two of which were among the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Thinking about it, there was no way he should know these two girls, let alone be on semi-cordial terms with them. Was he worthy of such friendship, and not just theirs, but that of Casey, Artorius, even Brian and Mr. Gatt? Did he have the right to this? After all, he could be dangerous.

  He hesitated, daring the premise of the argument to proceed to its natural conclusion.

  He probably was dangerous.

  Monson brought a hand to his head, rubbing at his temple.

  No, not probably, he was dangerous. That was what he had to assume, as he could not rule out that he wasn’t. Logical fallacies aside, he had plenty of reasons to consider himself a threat to others. He might have been responsible for Damion’s incapacitation and the destruction of the Horum Vir weight room, there were also those rare moments of angry bloodlust. That was totally dangerous if not to others then probably to himself. There was no other way around it. Gone was the time of pretending there was not something seriously wrong with him. To do so was to risk the chance of hurting others. It was not a chance he was willing to take.

  His conclusion forced him to do something that he really did not want to do. He knew now he had no choice.

  Resolution enforced, he tapped the new message icon on his phone. He clicked another button and waited patiently for his minuscule list of friends and quasi-family to load. He selected Cyann’s name and started to text her, avoiding the cutesy abbreviated language he used with Taris.

  TO: CYANN

  hey its me…

  3:44 am

  He stopped almost immediately. “Hey it’s me”-what a stupid opening line. How was she going to know who it was? Dumb. Seriously dumb. He started again.

  Cyann,

  TO: CYANN

  this is Monson… listen Im

  sorry Im texting you…I got

  your number from Kylie (long story)

  3:45 am

  He stopped a second time. OK, so far so good. Now how was he supposed to phrase this? He thought a lie was probably the best way to accomplish his design. If it worked with Cyann, it would probably work with Taris.

  TO: CYANN

  i dont know if ive given

  you the impression

  that we are friends

  or something…but I get a

  lot of unwanted attention

  because of you…im sorry but do

  you think we could just avoid

  one another in the future?

  were different people from

  different worlds…it just

  wouldnt work…i dont want

  you to get hurt. I’m sorry

  3:48 am

  He sent the message, ignoring the strange bout of apprehension welling up like a knot in this throat. This was for the best. A similar warning to Taris should do the trick. It’s not like she would be broken up about it. She was a pop star, after all. He wanted to take similar precautions with the others-Artorius, Casey, Molly, Mr. Gatt, Brian-but that would not end well. They would tell him to piss off and do so with a smile. A point of consideration for another time.

  Just as he started his message to Taris, a little envelope flew across his screen.

  It was from Cyann. Monson literally did a double-take, which up until then he considered cliche. It was like four in the morning. There was no way….

  He opened the message, attempting to steady his slightly trembling hand.

  FROM: CYANN

  Monson…we’ll

  talk about it later

  3:52 am

  “We’ll talk about it later?” He hit reply.

  TO: CYANN

  did you not understand?

  theres nothing to talk about…

  3:53 am

  He hit the send button and another envelope came swooshing across his screen within a couple of minutes.

  FROM: CYANN

  like I said…we’ll

  talk about it

  later…sweet dreams…

  3:57 am

  Monson sighed. This could be a long night.

  In spite of himself, he smiled. Stubborn girl.

  He tapped the reply button.

  ***

  Coren’s Unreasonable Quarantine, a name coined by Gossip Guy, lasted through the weekend and into the early part of the following week. For Monson and his friends, it was actually a nice break. Monson was not one to be out and about anyway and he had the opportunity to catch up on some anime and movies that he’d been slacking on. They started with some of the classics, watching for hours on end with little talking. It was glorious.

  The situation just got weird from there, and as inarticulate and strange as that sounded, it was the only word to describe it. He was not even sure how it happened. But a knock at the door, and a half-greeting later, Ignace, Indigo and a couple of her followers were in his apartment with popcorn, blankets and soda in overloaded arms. Before he knew it, they had a regular party on their hands.

  The group continued their movie experience with a string of scary movies from the late 1990s. After their last one of the evening, a particularly terrible film about good and bad ghosts who fought each other to stay away from the afterlife, taking the living with them and generally causing mayhem, ended, the conversation took a turn for the entertaining. It all began when Indigo started complaining.

  “And why did we watch this?” Indigo sipped at bottle of cola. “Of all the movies we could have wrapped up with, we had to watch that one?”

  “Yeah Case, I’ve always wondered why you like that movie so much.” Artorius shifted uneasily in his seat. Sitting next to Indigo was making him happy-almost creepy happy.

  At that point the small group focused its attention on Casey. He cleared his throat, coming across more thoughtful than the situation warranted.

  “Well, first, it should be said that the book is great. Written in the sixties and still one of the best horror novels out there.” Casey stood and adjusted his warm-up pants. He removed the movie from the DVD player and returned it to its case. “I don’t know why I’m so attached to it. Maybe it just reminds me of the novel, so I look past its faults.”

  “I knew we should have watched Floating Hope,” said Indigo. “But here’s the thing….”

  Casey yawn. “What’s that, little Harrison?”

  “So the little ghost kids-the good ghosts-were trying to get the main character lady’s help, right?”

  Casey nodded his head. Others nodded their agreement as well, though most appeared unsure of where Indigo was going with this.

  “So the ghost kids were trying to get the help of the main character. OK…I’m OK with that. They need her help. They being good ghosts is a twist on the story because ghosts are usually bad, but in the process of trying to get her help, the little dead people ended up scaring the crap out of her. How does leaving bloody footprints, moving statues around, and making weird warning noises in the night help? All that does is scare everyone. Doesn’t that seem stupid to anybody else?”

  Monson had not thought of that. It was true. The ghost children were a major plot point in the film and of course they ended up being good in the end. They were just kids after all. Now that he was really considering it…

  Casey did not seem to understand what Indigo was getting at. “What do you mean, Indigo?”

  “I mean the little ghost people are trying to get help so why would they think that scaring the crap out of the lady would further their cause in the slightest?”

  “You know she br
ings up a good point.” Artorius beamed at Indigo. “They should have been like, ‘OK, we’re ghosts, we realize this, but you’re the only person who can help us, so don’t freak out’.”

  Laughs broke out as Casey answered. “You two are perfect for each other-you’re both incredibly thick. Let me explain this to your goofy selves.”

  Casey settled back in his chair. At the same time, Monson stood and moved towards the bathroom. No one said anything, but he felt a few watching his retreating back. He closed the door to his bedroom, thankful to have those searching eyes off him. Ignace had been watching him all evening and it was starting to get old.

  He was not as desperate to visit the porcelain god as he was in need of a reprieve. Casey and his movie madness became overwhelming at times. Movie watching was very simple for Monson. He watched and either liked it or did not. It was not that complicated. The constant discussion of character development, plot lines, and interpersonal relationships fell beyond his interest or understanding. Nevertheless, he felt inclined to humor Casey, who loved that stuff, and Monson had to admit that sometimes even he could get sucked into the conversation.

  Monson finished his business in the bathroom and turned on the faucet in front of the mirror. He washed his hands vigorously, letting his hands enjoy the warm water, and desperately trying to look anywhere but straight ahead. But he could not help himself. He had to look, even for just a moment.

  Monson’s big blue-grays searched the surface of his own visage, starting with the concaves of his own eyes. They had not changed; they were the same blue-gray they had always been. Next, his line of sight traveled down the riveted lines of scar tissue that danced across his facial landscape. Ugly, hideous and disgusting, but at the same time artistic and symmetrical as if every line and groove had been carved purposely.

  Monson looked away from the mirror. He was such an idiot. Was he so desperate to find something-anything to be proud of? So determined that he would try to find beauty where none existed? No, he was not that deluded. He walked away from the mirror fighting the sudden urge to punch and shatter it into a thousand pieces.

  He had no answers. He had no relief. He only had darkness.

  Casey’s raised voice met Monson as he walked back into the room.

  “You guys don’t get it. It’s not like the ghosts have a manual for communicating with the living. They probably don’t know any better than humans how to make contact. So they do the best they can and sometimes it comes across a bit creepy. Not only that, you have to remember that there were two sets of ghosts fighting against each another. That could have made it much harder to make contact.”

  Monson stopped dead in his tracks.

  Two sets of ghosts…they probably don’t know any better than humans? Monson thought.

  It was time for an official declaration. Casey was a genius, an absolute genius.

  That was it! That was his answer!

  Chapter 35 – Understanding

  They probably don’t know any better than humans how to make contact…why didn’t I think of that? It’s so simple….

  Casey clicked his fingers in front of Monson’s face. “Grey, snap out of it.”

  Monson felt his heart palpitate as the ring of the first period bell cracked his dream-like contemplation.

  “Grey, seriously, you’ve been out of it for the last couple of days-what’s your deal?”

  Monson glanced around the room to see people packing up and getting ready to continue the first full day of classes in a week.

  “Sorry Casey.” Monson stood up, putting away his own unopened notebook. “I haven’t been sleeping very well the last couple of nights.”

  This was completely true. Ever since Casey’s revolutionary comment, Monson had gone out of his way to try to contact his mirrored self. That was two nights ago. However, he was finding that the stupid mirror image never produced itself on command. Because of his mirror image’s inability to be cognizant of other people’s schedules, Monson was currently trying everything in his power to recreate the circumstances in which his mirrors manifest-and yes, he meant mirrors, as there seemed to be two.

  Of course, all that sounded strange, even to Monson, but what other conclusion could he come to? Once he came up with the idea of trying to initiate contact with his counterparts it seemed almost inevitable that he would end up analyzing those few times they had revealed themselves. Coming to the conclusion that there were in fact two different “Monsons” besides himself was not something he did lightly, but it fit all the evidence. Whomever he spoke to during his fencing practice the other day seemed connected to that overtly dangerous feeling that sometimes overtook him; he could feel it. It was something about his grating voice. It felt aggressive, but at the same time bored. Such a voice could keep you up at night-hair-raising and destructive, the polar opposite of a harmonious state of mind. Then there were the eyes. Silver glowing spheres that bubbled with some sort of unspoken power. Monson was willing to bet that in the few times that foreign, dangerous emotion fell upon and dominated him, a not-so-coincidental change in his own eye color materialized. Monson was actually very thankful for the revelation as some of his previous befuddling experiences were now starting to make sense. Those upperclassmen who attacked him the very first day of classes, for example, had run away from him-a younger student who was alone, groggy from the smack on the head, and already on the ground. They had no reason to run away. Yet they did. They ran from him like their very lives depended on it, and as sickening as it was to admit, Monson now believed their flight was for good reason.

  The second clone-like person, the mirror image that spoke to him in the weight room, was a whole other story. Thinking back, though the delivery was a bit on the spooky side, there was not anything else remotely threatening about that experience. The other Monson seemed to be really trying to communicate. He had even said please, desperately calling, hoping for a response. The question was, why? Why was this alternate personality trying to speak to him? What could they possibly have to talk about? Was that normal for multiple personality disorder? He seriously doubted it. Nothing in this research he had been studying said so. Monson considered contacting some of the leading experts in psychology to ask. He was a Coren University student after all. They would be dying to help him. That plan had some risks, though. What if any of this got out? They would probably lock him up and throw away the key. And as fun as jail sounded, and really it did, he was going to have to opt out of that one. He was far too pretty to be in jail.

  It was for this reason he decided to try to figure this out on his own in the late hours of the night-hence the dozing through class. Tonight he would again try and contact his wraithlike relatives, but maybe he would start a bit earlier and try not to stay up all night. Even crazy people needed some sleep.

  “You know, Grey, you really should go and see that hot school nurse that Arthur was all up in arms about,” said Casey, absentmindedly waving to a blonde girl Monson did not know. “She could probably find you something to help you sleep.”

  Yeah, that’s just what I need, thought Monson. Drugs mixed with psychotic behavior. That’s a Special Report waiting to happen.

  The boys gathered their stuff, hardly noticing the black-suited man in the back corner of the room.

  “Grey,” whispered Casey conspiratorially. “Do you think that guy’s even alive?”

  “Dude, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Seriously man, who can stand that still?”

  “The soldiers at Buckingham Place in London are supposed to be able stand for hours without moving,” offered Artorius, who was also packing up his stuff. “I would think that these guys should be able to stand for at least an hour without moving.”

  Monson and Casey gave him blank looks.

  Artorius scowled in response. “Why do you guys act so confused when I know stuff?”

  Monson and Casey glanced at each other and broke into laughter as they did.

  Artorius’ scowled deepened.
“And why does it seem that you’re always making fun of me?”

  Artorius’ ringing phone saved Monson and Casey the trouble of responding to that. His hand shot out from his school jacket and his eyes widened as he saw who was calling. “Indigo!”

  Casey wiped at his eyes, the diminishing traces of laughter dying out. “Ahh... good times.”

  He returned his attention to his belongings. “Come on man, we’d better move it or Masters is gonna make us do push-ups again.”

  Monson did not answer but quickly put his school stuff away, ever so conscious of the suited man behind them.

  They did not resume their conversation until they were in the hallway. Casey pulled out his phone, checking for RSS updates and news from various websites.

  “They finally started reconstruction of Baroty Bridge,” reported Casey. “Seems Christopher Baroty finally gave the go-ahead. He even said he would put in the money.”

  “Really?” Monson leaned over towards Casey’s BlackBerry. “That’s pretty cool of him.”

  “Not really.” Casey shook his head as he fiddled with the onscreen keyboard of the phone. “It’s not like he had much of a choice. If he didn’t they’d be losing billions of dollars in revenue from the mainland travelers who’d use it.”

  Monson straightened up. “Ahh...I guess that makes sense.”

  Casey smiled. . “Money sure does make the world go ‘round, doesn’t it?”

  “You got that right.”

  A thought occurred to Monson, one that was curious enough to make him drop his hands and lean in again towards Casey.

  This sudden movement surprised Casey, who stepped back from him. “Dude, what’s-”