"Yeah, I know," says Johnny. "That's how I felt the first time too. But..." He shrugs. "Every once in a while the rift drags everybody into one of these things and we all get to fuck around for a while until it decides it's done. So, may as well play the game while we're here, huh?"
He opens the door - no resistance at all this time - and steps through without even looking at the tantalizing view beyond. Not worth getting his hopes up.
It's a dining room, sensibly enough, but the chandelier hangs at a precarious angle, wreaths of cobwebs trailing down, the curtains spill ghostlike across the floor - some of the floorboards are broken, leaving dangerous gashes in the floor. The massive table, once impressive, is now a deteriorating relic. Still set. Dusty plates and silverware. A centerpiece full of dead flowers.
Worst of all are the guests, so to speak. For a moment Johnny thinks they're other dreamers, but no, not at all - one to each chair, no food before them, utterly unmoving. Each one a rough-textured gray-white color. The color of drywall.
He steps forward, hesitant and fearful, leaning down to look closely. They're human-shaped, but they don't have features of any kind, just blank, flat faces.
He reaches out, very slowly, trembling, and touches the arm of the nearest ghoulish specimen. He half expects it to jerk to life the moment he makes contact, but it remains still, cold, lifeless. Just an eerie series of sculptures.
"Plaster," he murmurs, straightening up. "God. Creepy as shit."
Which is when, belatedly and of fucking course, the statuesque figure turns toward him with a horrible crunch, its arm snapping up before he can scream, a clumped, fingerless hand seizing him tightly by the throat.
no subject
He opens the door - no resistance at all this time - and steps through without even looking at the tantalizing view beyond. Not worth getting his hopes up.
It's a dining room, sensibly enough, but the chandelier hangs at a precarious angle, wreaths of cobwebs trailing down, the curtains spill ghostlike across the floor - some of the floorboards are broken, leaving dangerous gashes in the floor. The massive table, once impressive, is now a deteriorating relic. Still set. Dusty plates and silverware. A centerpiece full of dead flowers.
Worst of all are the guests, so to speak. For a moment Johnny thinks they're other dreamers, but no, not at all - one to each chair, no food before them, utterly unmoving. Each one a rough-textured gray-white color. The color of drywall.
He steps forward, hesitant and fearful, leaning down to look closely. They're human-shaped, but they don't have features of any kind, just blank, flat faces.
He reaches out, very slowly, trembling, and touches the arm of the nearest ghoulish specimen. He half expects it to jerk to life the moment he makes contact, but it remains still, cold, lifeless. Just an eerie series of sculptures.
"Plaster," he murmurs, straightening up. "God. Creepy as shit."
Which is when, belatedly and of fucking course, the statuesque figure turns toward him with a horrible crunch, its arm snapping up before he can scream, a clumped, fingerless hand seizing him tightly by the throat.