The House of Fear

a story

One day, K woke up in a strange house. Yes, just like that—all at once. K had fallen asleep in her own bedroom and woken up in a strange house. The walls were painted a pale, grey color, and the corridor of this single-story house was laid with a runner of faded red, patterned with a geometric design. Doors lined both sides—an endless procession of doors. K stared at the first door on the left, then at the first door on the right. Knock, or try to open it? Was anyone behind it? You never know unless you try, K thought, and pulled the handle of the door on the right. The door gave way and opened.

Before her eyes appeared a middle-aged woman in a long, milk-colored dress.

“Hello, Claire,” the stranger said with a smile.

“How do you know my name?” K frowned.

“We all know one another here. My name is Bree. Come in, have a seat on the sofa.” She gestured warmly toward a green sofa against the far wall.

K walked warily to the sofa and sat down, keeping her watchful gaze fixed on Bree.

“What is this place?”

“Would you like some green tea? I’ve only just brewed it.”

“No, thank you.”

“As you wish.” Bree lost all interest in her guest and returned to her oak desk in the middle of the room. Her gaze froze on a white sheet of paper lying beside a black pen.

“Bree?”

No answer. K rose and walked to the desk.

“Bree! What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on,” Bree answered calmly, still looking at the paper. “Nothing is going on. I am simply waiting for inspiration.”

“Inspiration for what?”

“I have to write a book.”

“That’s interesting. A book about what?”

Silence. Bree kept staring at the paper.

“Bree! What is your book about?” K would not let it go.

“Hm? What? About what—a book?” Bree seemed to surface from a trance and turned to K. “Are you really interested?”

“Yes. Of course I am!” K confirmed with a smile.

“Claire, I am not writing a book. I want to write a book. I am waiting for inspiration. Don’t you understand?”

“All right, all right. Don’t get worked up. I understand.”

“You had better go. You’re distracting me.”

“Distracting you from waiting?”

“All the best, Claire!” Bree stood and ushered her out the door.

The moment Bree’s door slammed shut in K’s astonished face, the next door opened, and the grey head of Mrs. Schauenbaum appeared in the doorway.

“Bree can hardly boast of good manners, can she, Claire?” the old woman winked.

“What did I do wrong?”

“You don’t always do ‘something wrong,’ Claire. And you’re certainly not to blame that Bree has been waiting for inspiration for fifteen years now.”

“What? Fifteen years? She’s been in that room for fifteen years?” K was stunned.

“She isn’t there the whole time. She only appears when she’s waiting for inspiration. I’m Mrs. Schauenbaum, by the way. Would you like some pancakes with banana and chocolate?”

“I’d love some, Mrs. Schauenbaum!”

K stepped into the old woman’s room and found there an entire confectionery workshop, spilling over into a bakery about to open its doors to guests.

“I never imagined you had a whole bakery in here! How beautiful it all is! And that smell!” K marveled at the array of cakes and pastries.

“Yes—and it’s all wickedly delicious too! Help yourself, dear!” Mrs. Schauenbaum winked and set a plate of pancakes for Claire on the large turquoise table.

“Thank you! I’m suddenly so hungry—as if I hadn’t eaten in two days!” Claire devoured everything on the plate in a matter of seconds.

The old woman watched her guest with tenderness.

“Claire, do you like the turquoise table, or would it be prettier in white?”

“The turquoise is lovely. Why?”

“I simply can’t choose between white and turquoise. I can’t make up my mind!”

“Oh…” K murmured thoughtfully. “Mrs. Schauenbaum—why do you need to choose between a white table and a turquoise one?”

“Why, what do you mean? I have to open my own little café for guests! Everything you see here, all these cakes and pastries—I bake them with my own hands, and I want to serve them to my guests in my own café,” the old woman said with delight, sitting down across from K.

“Given where I am, I can’t help but ask—how long have you been unable to choose between white and turquoise?”

“You think I’m like Bree?”

“I think the color of the tables makes no difference at all when your baking is this good! You simply must open your doors to guests—even without any tables!”

Mrs. Schauenbaum lit up all over—and vanished. Everything of hers disappeared from the room, all but the chair K was sitting on.

“Well, that was sudden,” K said calmly, and walked out of the emptied room. At least she had managed a good meal.

K went on down the long corridor. From the left came the sound of a piano; she couldn’t resist, and opened the door.

At a black piano sat a handsome young man, no older than thirty. His long fingers caressed the ivory keys with the ease of a virtuoso. He stumbled at the same passage for the third time, drew a breath, and began again. K found herself gazing at his focused face—she even thought it beautiful. His eyes flicked toward her.

“Claire? Hi! I had a feeling I’d see you here today.”

“Of course—of course you know my name. May I come in?” K asked with an awkward smile.

“Yes, come in. My name is Franco.” He crossed to her and held out his hand.

K took it and let his hand linger in hers a little longer than proper. For a moment their eyes held. Franco broke the silence:

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here?”

“Yes. So what are you doing here, Franco?” K tried to look at him as calmly as she could, but the corners of her lips betrayed her with a smile.

“I’m composing my symphony—The Passing Moment. I only have to get the final notes right, but I can’t seem to play it the way it sounds in my head.”

“How often are you here?” Her curiosity was personal.

“Every day for two years now. Would you like to hear it from the beginning?”

“I’d love to!”

K settled into the armchair to the left of the piano, and her eyes closed of their own accord the moment Franco touched the keys. The melody was so piercing that tears slid down Claire’s cheeks unbidden, and she did not even try to stop them. The whole world within her went still; there was only this divine music, aching in her ribs with longing, and a shimmering darkness. This time Franco played the melody through to the very end. The Symphony of the Passing Momentwas brought into the world through the meeting of Franco’s soul and Claire’s.

When Claire opened her eyes, the room was empty.

“No, no, no, no!” Claire was stricken that Franco had vanished—yet inside her lay a quiet certainty that they would meet again, somewhere beyond this house.

And what was this house, anyway? Where did all these people come from, where did they vanish to, and why was she here? K was firmly resolved to find the answers. In the corridor came the sound of heavy footsteps; a creaking voice called Claire by name. She had not yet seen this person, but somehow she already disliked him.

“Claire! I know you’re there—come out into the corridor, please!”

Claire peered out of the doorway, but she was in no hurry to step through it.

“There you are,” the figure tossed out carelessly.

Claire noticed with surprise that she could make out only his outline—she did not see him as clearly as she had seen the other inhabitants of this house.

“Here I am!” K mimicked. “And who might you be? Why can I barely see you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I look like—that’s why you can’t see me fully. Come out into the corridor.”

“I most certainly will not! I’m fine right here. What do you want from me? I feel something unpleasant the moment I hear your voice.”

“Well, excuse me!” he smirked. “My name is Echo. I’ve come to warn you: you are not permitted to enter other people’s rooms. Return to your own at once. You’ve made a complete mess here—Bree told me everything!”

“What did Bree tell you?”

“I told him nothing!” Bree’s voice made Echo dissolve. “Claire, I told him absolutely nothing!”

Seizing on Echo’s disappearance, Claire strode into Bree’s room. Her heart pounded like mad.

“Who was that?” Claire asked anxiously, sipping from the glass of water Bree kindly held out.

“He calls himself Echo. He’s… no one has seen exactly what he looks like, but he always speaks in our own words and keeps us bound in a fear we invented ourselves. Or so Liv used to say, at least. Poor Liv—she never managed to leave here. Echo defeated her. If she couldn’t do it, then I certainly can’t! I can’t!”

Bree was plainly agitated, showing every sign of a fever.

“Bree. Bree!” Claire went to her and clasped Bree’s trembling hands in her own. “Look at me. Look at me. Everything is all right—you’re safe. You’re with me. Echo cannot come in here. Now breathe in, deeply, and breathe out. Repeat after me.”

For several minutes they breathed together and held hands, until Bree grew calm. In her room now stood only a chair, a desk, and the green sofa. An idea came to Claire. She cleared the writing things from the desk and told Bree to lie down on it. To her surprise, Bree agreed.

“Let’s play a game. I’ll ask you a question, and without thinking you give me an answer—the very first thing that comes to mind.”

“All right, let’s.” Bree grew curious.

“Who is Liv?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“All right. Why haven’t you written your book in fifteen years, when you want to so badly?”

“Fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“Of writing something bad.”

“And what happens if you write something bad?”

“They’ll judge me.”

“Who will judge you?”

“Randy and Paul.”

“Who are Randy and Paul?”

“My brothers.”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to them in fifteen years.”

“What would you say to them now, if you were in touch?”

“I’d tell them to go to hell.”

“Say it to them. Say it out loud.”

“Randy and Paul, go to hell.”

“Louder.”

“Randy and Paul, go to hell!”

“Louder still, Bree!”

“Randy and Paul—GO TO HELL!!”

The last words Bree cried out on her feet, grinning with all thirty-two teeth.

“That’s it! Good girl, Bree!” They hugged and laughed—Bree overjoyed to be free of the chains of fear, Claire overjoyed for her.

“Oh, gods! Claire, you must leave me at once—I’m finally ready to write my book! It will be about liberation! Thank you!”

Bree embraced Claire warmly and set the paper and pen back on the desk. Claire closed the door behind her with a smile.

“What have you done!” Echo appeared again in the corridor. “Now she’ll never come back here.”

“And that’s bad because…?”

“Open the door to her room! Go on—open it!”

Claire opened the door, and where the room had been there was only emptiness.

“Now open Franco’s door, and Mrs. Schauenbaum’s!”

Claire obeyed, and found emptiness there too.

“What does all this mean?” Claire wondered.

“It means these people no longer need the House of Fear.”

“The House of Fear?”

“Each of them longed for something with all their heart, and let their fears keep them from it. Every time they surrendered to fear, they ended up here. But you—after talking with you, they conquered their fears.”

“And isn’t that a good outcome?”

“For whom? And what about me?”

“And who are you?”

“I exist because of your fears. I am the Echo of your fears. I am almost invisible because I am almost unreal. And now, thanks to you, I am losing my home as well.”

“You’re losing your home because your task is coming to an end. But my room is still here. Which means I haven’t conquered my own fear.”

“And where would you have found the time for that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Focusing on others instead of yourself—that’s your specialty. You helped everyone but yourself, as always.”

“Oh…” Claire lowered her eyes.

“That feeling you had when you first heard my voice…”

“That is what my fear sounds like.”

Echo ceased to be barely visible. He took on the form of Claire—twelve-year-old Claire. His voice changed too, into the child’s voice of Claire herself.

“I know that at some point I decided singing on a stage wasn’t a serious enough thing to do, and I gave it up. But it is what I truly love. When I’m on stage with a microphone, I feel that I am exactly where I belong. And besides… isn’t doing what you love so dearly—having the courage to do what you love so dearly—the most serious thing in all the world?”

“Thank you, Claire,” the grown Claire said with a smile, and vanished.

Claire’s room vanished along with her. But the House of Fear remained where it stood, because humankind has not yet learned to be unafraid. Other inhabitants will come to the House of Fear, and the circle will not be broken as long as humanity endures. To be afraid is only human. To hand your fear the reins of life itself—now that is a truly dubious choice. Life loves the brave.