Purge

         I opened my front door to find three total strangers loitering about inside my home. There was a blue-haired man in the kitchen, wearing a frilly yellow apron and frying something that, admittedly, smelled awesome. Standing across from the front door, tucked into a corner, was a blonde-haired little girl, who couldn’t have been a day older than thirteen. She was as still as a statue, her back straight and her arms stiff at her sides, as if she were afraid she’d trash the place if she so much as moved. And trashing the place seemed to be exactly what the third guy was in the middle of doing. He wore an over-sized brown jacket with the hood up, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the door, building small piles of DVD’s and video game cases in a circle around himself, muttering.

Meanwhile, the little girl had shut her eyes, tapping her fingers lightly against her thighs and mouthing the words to a song only she seemed to be able to hear, apparently trying to block out the sounds of my media collection being ravaged. In the kitchen, the blue-haired man was humming to himself as he flipped a pancake in the pan, fumbled when he went to catch it, and it hit the floor with a plop. Without missing a beat, he reached down, picked it up, shook it off, and tossed it back in the pan.

After the first few seconds of wide-eyed shock passed, I began to notice a trail of carnage that snaked throughout the front half of my house, like someone had burst in and, with a very specific path mapped out, began tossing my belongings around and generally making a mess of the place. It started at the door, where a pair of muddy shoes lay up against the wall, even though whoever had been wearing them had already stomped all over the carpet when they first entered anyway. Despite the situation, I couldn’t stop myself from lamenting at how long it would take me to get the mud stains up and out of the carpet.

Next, the culprit had found their way to the kitchen, where they’d eaten several spoonfuls of sugar, putting the spoon they used back into the sugar container before they inexplicably took a full ice tray out of the freezer and left it on the counter. It hadn’t been the blue-haired man though; he was still wearing his shoes, and besides that, the perpetrator hadn’t stopped at the kitchen.

They’d hit the living room next. All of my magazines, which normally rested neatly on the coffee table in the middle of the room, had been flung onto the floor, each and every one of them, expect for one, which was half sticking out from under one of the couch’s cushions. The rest formed a path that, no surprise, led straight to the boy on the floor, who was still steadily building a haphazard wall around himself with my DVD’s.

Apparently none of them had heard me enter. I’d had just decided to sneak away and call the police when the little girl’s face began to contort, followed by a sneeze. She blinked, sniffed, saw me, and blinked again. Then her eyes went wide and she squeaked, bring the heads of the other two swiveling around to stare at me in unison. For a brief moment, silence had settled over my house; the blue-haired man had stopped humming, a curious smile plastered on his face. His hair was powder blue, falling over his right eye, the exposed one a dark grey-blue. The mess-maker had half-turned his body around so he could stare at me from under the shadows cast by his too-large hood; I could hardly see his face, but what I could see looked like a scowl. The little girl’s green eyes had gone wide, her mouth hanging slightly agape. Then we all erupted into a chorus of words, none of which I could actually make out.

“Who the hell are you people?”

“I didn’t touch any of your things, I swear!”

“Your collection sucks big time.”

“I hope you’re hungry. I made eggs.”

The blue-haired man shook his head with a smile, turning down the burner on the oven. “Whoa, whoa, one at a time.” He picked up a spatula and held it like a microphone, pointing at me exaggeratedly with his free hand. “You first! What are your thoughts one the matter?” He leaned over the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, jabbing the spatula in my face.

“Um…” I felt stupid talking into the utensil, so I took a step back. “Who are you people? What are you doing in my house? Should I be, like… worried?” The man nodded as I spoke, grinning when I finished. He had an easy smile.

“Yes, yes, all very good questions. My name is Garnette,” he said with a flourished bow, “and that over there in the corner, is Finnian.” The little girl, who I was positive hadn’t blinked once since I walked in, gave a tiny nod, still looking very much terrified. Garnette straightened, putting his hands on his hips and jutting out his jaw in mock annoyance. “And the one making herself a pretty little castle out of your personal belongings would be Kylie.” The mess-maker, who was apparently a girl, raised her hand, then went back to doing… whatever it was she was doing. He crossed his arms, resting his elbows on the counter. “As for whether or not you should be worried, the answer is, yes. Because what we’re doing here, my good man, is getting rid of your undead infestation. And trust me when I say it's a doozy.”