Jul. 26th, 2015

johnny_truant: (numb)
[personal profile] johnny_truant
He dreams more and more of the house, more like the days before the rift when it haunted him almost every night and he stopped knowing the difference between sleep and hallucination. Sometimes he doesn't know they're dreams; often he does, and he knows there's help to be summoned if he wants it, but he doesn't want it. He deserves this. It's drawing him in, growing larger and larger at the back of his head, fed by too much probing and rearranging, fed by his own unwillingness to escape.

Tonight he knows. He stands in a massive, almost decadent foyer, never what Zampanò described, this would never be the house that Will Navidson and Karen Green moved their children into, but it doesn't matter, because the house can look like whatever it wants.

He stands for a moment, noting the stairways and the halls feeding into other rooms, and the various choices of doors. Just stands and observes, calmly, impassively, like he's memorizing it for something.

He has to pick a direction. He has to go somewhere.

His body tilts gently and pivots him to his left, toward the door that should be a coat closet, and he knows is not.

He opens it and steps through, letting himself cross into the belly of the beast, the true house interior, where everything is dark and ashen and quiet and cold. He moves forward, dread weighing him down heavily but not enough to pull him back, afraid but not enough to run. He moves like he's in a trance, like he has no choice (and he doesn't). The house is pulling him in, like it always does, it wants so heavily, so hungrily, and for whatever fucking reason it wants him.

He walks into the darkening, narrowing passage until he finds stairs, and then he descends.

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