If the McClellans’ house is the story’s main character, then fire is its central antagonist. After a falling tree bough crashes through the window and sends cleaning solvent over the stove, the kitchen immediately catches flame. The night fire is untamed and uncontrollable—it tears through the house despite the technological devices’ most desperate attempts to contain it.
Earlier mentions of fire establish a close association with death and rebirth. Shortly before dying, the McClellans’ dog runs in circles with “eyes turned to fire.” In Teasdale’s poem, where a verse foretells a time when “robins will wear their feathery fire,” flames meanwhile speak to a defiant capacity for regrowth. Fire bears the suggestion of both life and its absence, foreshadowing the flames to come that night.
In its larger, full-blown form, the fire at the McClellans’ house embodies this paradox of life and death. It is, by all accounts, a destructive force: the flames make quick work of the squeaking mice and hardly diminish under the mechanical rain. Unlike the McClellans’ dog, it successfully shrugs off all of the technology’s attempts at order.
The story portrays the fire as something that is as creative as it may be violent. In its most ironic sense, this act of destruction becomes a source of life. The fire wreaks havoc on the house but also comes closest to attaining life’s full organic force. “Now the fire lay in beds, stood in the windows, changed the colors of drapes!” the narrator exclaims, using personification to deepen the sense of fire as a thing with agency. The flames feed upon the Picassos and even the closet’s clothes as they retreat from the repellent. There is even a sense of playfulness as it outmaneuvers the repellant and sends its flames crackling up through the windows. Fire becomes the only actual inhabitant in this empty house, however short-lived its stay may be.