In the third-floor sitting room of the Delahooke mansion, a small brick door by the crook of the chimney leads into the Gleaming Room. The Gleaming Room has stirred conversation from the start. Its surfaces are seamless in such a way that it is impossible to ascertain the room’s shape—if there are four walls, or twelve, or twenty; if the room is a cylinder, or a spiral wrapping around itself. Nor can anyone determine the Gleaming Room’s size, which some have reported as claustrophobically tight and others as immeasurably tall and wide and extending to imperceptible depths. Early visitors questioned if the room was made of mirrors, but mirrors reflect, and the gleaming does not. And though the Gleaming Room is bright, there is no light source to be found. Rather, the room produces its own phosphorescence—or photoluminescence, or chemiluminescence, or, as some of the townspeople have suggested, bioluminescence, as though the gleaming itself is a living thing.
*
The Gleaming Room has at times been described as a mouth, in that some visitors have slipped down its smooth throat and vanished. The mansion has been searched on many occasions. First in 1889 when the room’s existence was made public. Again in 1911, ’32, ’66. This is according to the town’s official records, though it is well established that other searches have been made with varying levels of Delahooke involvement. For the Delahookes are gracious in opening the mansion to tours, but bristle at the implication of searches.
*
Every few decades a new proposal arises to seal the door to the Gleaming Room. These are always countered by taut speculation that one day, all those who have disappeared will return—they will crawl out from the Gleaming Room’s mysterious innards with matted hair and broken nails and frantic, frightened faces. No, no, others say, they will come back preserved. Radiant and plump and wholly undamaged. The third argument, of course, is simple—that the Gleaming Room’s lost can never come back. That the door should be closed and never reopened. That common sense is absent in discussions of the Room.
*
In 1987, a petition is lodged to add the Gleaming Room to the town registry of historical places and thereby ensure its continued existence. The petition prompts a fresh wave of debate about the Gleaming Room’s origins and inner workings, the potential repercussions of its preservation or neglect. A theory grows and spreads across town that the gleaming is carefully, deliberately contained. That if the gleaming escapes its one-room confinement, it would engulf, subsume, overtake, feast. A disgusting fable, the town naysayers claim. Overripe lore from gross imagination—the room is no more than a parlor trick.
*
The ’87 petition is rejected by the mayor, citing insufficient evidence of historical merit. Some say the Delahookes bribed the mayor for this decision. Others hint that the family has grown tired of the gossip, tired of their failing reputation in town. They grow ever more reclusive, more wary of guests. One account claims the Delahookes were seen departing the mansion, slipping away under cover of dark. The house’s damask curtains have all been drawn shut, every window and door double-locked from inside. But there are whispers that the Delahookes left the Gleaming Room open, that the gleaming has swollen to fill every room. Some insist that on dark nights, one can still see the gleaming through minuscule gaps in the window dressings.
*
In 1990, an anonymous demand is filed to condemn the Delahooke mansion, which many now refer to as the Gleaming House. The ’90 request is rejected by the mayor, citing uncertainty regarding the house’s safety, and inability to locate the Delahookes to discuss. A small but growing faction of townsfolk are deeply displeased with this latest decision, deeply fed up with the rumors and tales. The house is a blight, the gleaming a delusion. Many years have passed since anyone has gone missing. It is high time to put superstitions aside. In autumn of 1991, armed with certainty and newly honed axes, twenty of the town’s most ardent critics arrive at the Gleaming House to break down the door.
*
Some still hold out hope that the critics will return. Or if not the critics, then the Delahookes, at least. Someone who can offer an answer or two. With each passing year, the Gleaming House slumps deeper toward decay. Some say one heavy storm is all it will take. The roof will collapse. A window will shatter. A rodent will gnaw out a hole in the wall. Then the gleaming will spill out, unrestrained, unfettered. The townsfolk wait with bated breath for this new, gleaming world to arrive.
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Gina Thayer’s work has appeared in Barrelhouse, Cotton Xenomorph, Sundog Lit, Five South, Lunch Ticket, trampset (nominated for a Pushcart Prize), Orca, Bullshit Lit, and HAD, among others. Gina holds an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is currently working on a collection of speculative stories. After several years in the Pacific Northwest, Gina now lives in Minneapolis with their partner and cat.