The pig turned a page. “Welcome to the Peeg House,” it said, without looking. “Rules are simple. Don’t open the basement door after midnight. Don’t feed the mirror in the upstairs bathroom. And whatever you do, don’t say ‘thank you’ to the tall man in the gray coat if he offers you anything.”
Leo should have run. Every nerve in his body was screaming it. But he was tired. So tired. And the smell of woodsmoke and pears was strangely gentle.
Cheap was the only word that mattered. He’d spent his last seventy dollars on a bus ticket to this city, and the shelter had turned him away for the third time. So when the old woman with the milky eye and the lavender perfume had pressed the flyer into his hand at the depot, he hadn’t asked questions. He’d just followed the address. Welcome to the Peeg House-
The second was a woman—or had been, once. Her skin was the gray-green of a thundercloud, and her hair moved in slow, separate strands, like seaweed in a lazy current. She was knitting what looked like a scarf made of fog.
Then he walked inside.
“How much for the first month?” he heard himself ask.
“Um,” he said.
No one looked up when Leo entered.
Leo stared at it, then down at the flyer crumpled in his fist. The pig turned a page
Behind him, the door to the street clicked shut and locked itself. The grandfather clock with no hands began to chime—thirteen times.
