The Hungry Hallway

Mama, the house finished eating my name today. She didn't flinch. Just smeared the porridge around the bowl. - A new one will grow back by evening. I understood then: Mama knew why the floor chewed at night. Knew that scraps of my dreams lay between the boards, wet with saliva. And still she put me to bed right over the spot where the house opened its mouth. Every evening Mama did the same thing.

She took away the lantern, straightened my blanket and bolted the door of my room from the outside. - Don't get up. The hallway is hungry. - At least leave the light. She would lean down, kiss me with dry lips and whisper: - Light spoils the taste. Then her footsteps would die away in the hallway. And under the bed something would begin slowly chewing the darkness. At first the house ate only dreams.

I would wake and not remember Mama's face, my own voice, or the day when Father was still home. Then it learned to eat fear. The floor grew warm. The bed rocked ever so slightly. Moist breath slid out of the cracks and licked my fingers. I cried into the blanket. Mama said the house couldn't hear quiet children. She lied! Quiet crying was more to its taste. That night thirst woke me. I called for Mama until my tongue went dry and rough. No one came.

The bolt suddenly clicked by itself. The door opened a palm's width. I touched the handle. It was warm and wet. Something slowly ran its tongue between my fingers. Mama's voice came out of the darkness: - Come out, son. The house has already laid the table. The hallway grew longer than a field. The walls drew back when I looked ahead and closed in behind my back.

The floor sagged under my bare feet, warm and soft, like the tongue of a great animal. Something heavy rolled beneath it. From the stovepipe near the ceiling Mama called gently: - Come back, my little bunny. It's dangerous out there. Her voice came from the walls, the floor and my belly all at once. The walls swelled around me. Milk teeth cut through the painted flowers. They clicked, small and impatient. I grabbed the door handle.

It licked my palm and clenched shut like a mouth. On the wall someone had scratched with a child's fingernails: "Mama, I was good." Below the words ran seven more children's names. The last letter of each turned into a long crooked scratch that stretched toward the gap between the boards. The children had tried to leave their names while the wall slowly pulled them inside. In the kitchen the table was laid for me alone. My yesterday's porridge steamed in the bowl.

Beside it lay a spoon tied with a ribbon from my blanket. Jars stood dark on the shelves. I recognized Mama's handwriting: "First night without light." "Called forty-three times." "The dream where he left forever." In each one something pinkish and fleshy stirred in black liquid. Behind my back Mama said: - I saved everything for supper, sunshine. She came out of the wall slowly.

Her skirt stayed in the wall, her hair grew from the ceiling, and her arms reached through the boards like roots. - Mama... - Hush now, I never beat you, - she said gently. - I only locked you in. The house loves to eat fear. Flesh and bones it saves for last. I gave it what you always had too much of, son. She wiped the saliva off the door handle with my shirt. - Now it wants the rest. Mama led me to the nursery. The door opened, and the hallway curled upward.

I found myself above my own room. The bed stood in the middle of a round white spot. The boards beneath it were thin and smooth, like children's teeth. Spoons, napkins and gnawed toys lay all around. The nursery had never sheltered me. For years Mama had been laying me on a plate. I ran for the way out. The stairs arched and threw me back. The rug wound around my ankles.

The front door slid away to the end of the hallway and shrank small, like the door of a toy house. Mama's hands reached out from the walls. - Don't be afraid, little one, - she said from every crack. - Once you're swallowed, nothing will hurt anymore. I promise. The house drew in a breath. The hallway tightened around me. I had almost reached the door when a hand out of the wallpaper caught my leg. Mama dragged me back. My fingernails left long furrows in the wet floor.

- You don't want the house to take me instead of you, do you? I screamed that I didn't. She smiled and pressed me to her chest. Inside it, something was chewing. - There, you see, son. You do love your mama after all, my dear one. I love you too, and now be a good boy. And she carried me to the nursery. Under the bed the boards parted. Down below stirred little shoes, milk teeth and thousands of forgotten dolls.

Mama laid me on the blanket, tucked in the edges and kissed my forehead. - Close your eyes. Good children don't watch themselves being eaten. The floor bent around the bed. I felt a warm tongue on my back. The last thing the house swallowed was the memory of me. Mama helped it chew. Now I live inside the walls. I hear every spoon, every bolt and every child who is brought to my room. A month later Mama brought a girl from some distant kin.

She laid her on my bed and took away the lantern. I screamed from the walls: - Don't fall asleep, I beg you, I beg you, hear me! The room is a plate! But the house chewed up my voice and let out Mama's: - Sleep, sunshine. Only don't go out into the hallway, it's hungry. Good night.