The Protocol of the Uninvited

Fiction

The rowan trees didn't just die; they collapsed. I found them on Tuesday morning, the berries turned to a sort of translucent gray sludge and the soil smelling like old pennies. I had spent three seasons balancing the salt-grass and the iron-filings in the mulch, following the manual to the letter, but the frost had been too deep or the soil too acidic. It doesn't matter why it happened now. What matters is that the perimeter was open. I found him in the sitting room. He was sitting in my father's wingback chair, wearing a suit of a fabric that looked like pressed smoke. He didn't jump up or try to hide. He just smiled, a thin, precise movement of the lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Good morning," he said. His voice sounded like dry parchment rubbing together. "I trust I am not interrupting your routine. I noticed the gate was unlatched, so to speak." I didn't move from the doorway. I could see the edges of the room already beginning to shift. The deep crimson of the wallpaper was fading into a dull, washed-out pink. The warmth of the morning sun hitting the floorboards was being sucked away, leaving a chill that felt like it was coming from inside my own bones. "You can't be here," I said. I reached for the iron poker by the hearth, but my hand felt heavy, as if the air had turned to syrup. "Now, let us not be uncivil," he replied. He crossed one leg over the other with a grace that was deeply unnatural. "I am a guest. According to the Old Protocol, as long as I am treated with the respect due to a visitor of my station, I shall be a most considerate companion. I require very little. A seat, a conversation, perhaps a bit of your time." He didn't mention that 'a bit of time' looked like the color draining out of my favorite rug. By the time he finished his first sentence, the rug was a sterile, lifeless gray. "I'm not hosting you," I told him. "The invitation is implicit in the failure of your hedge," he said, his tone remaining impeccably soft. "You left the door open, Elias. It would be terribly rude to cast me out now that I have made myself comfortable." He leaned forward, and the temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees. I could see my breath frosting in the air. The gold frame of the portrait on the wall turned to leaden pewter. He wasn't attacking me; he was just existing, and his existence was a vacuum. He gestured toward the tea service on the side table. "I believe a pot of Earl Grey would be appropriate for the hour. Would you be so kind?" I looked at the gray walls and the shivering air. I knew the rules. If I screamed, if I fought, or if I tried to drag him out by the collar, he would stop being polite. The Protocol was the only thing keeping him in the chair. The terror wasn't in what he was doing, but in the absolute, terrifying courtesy of how he was doing it. I walked toward the kitchen, feeling the warmth leave my fingertips with every step.