Of course it's a house. Why wouldn't it be. It's always a fucking house.
Johnny doesn't want to be around people right now. He can't stand the mingling voices, the clink of the spoon on the punch bowl, the warmth of everyone together in a room.
Besides, it's a costume party, isn't it? He's not in costume. He doesn't fit in. Doesn't fit. Never did. Doesn't belong here. There. Anywhere.
He prowls the outskirts of the house instead. Here it's damp, dark, dusty, unfriendly. This is more like it. That's what he was looking for. What's that word again? Unheimlich.
Safest where it's unsafe. Where he blends into the background.
Nobody should be near him. No one should touch him. He's poison. Sickness. Razor's edge. He'll only hurt you.
He listens to the crisp creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, listens to the draft that has one of the doors rattling open and shut periodically. Makes him jump everytime. Good. Be afraid. He deserves to be afraid.
He's part of this place. Why didn't he see it before? The house - the house - every house. They're part of him, and he, them.
It makes so much sense.
He cuts little paths through inter-connected rooms, each darker and colder than the last. Rusted doorknobs, rotting wood, mirrors shattered and coated with black residue, so he can only see himself through the cracks and gaps. As it should be.
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Johnny doesn't want to be around people right now. He can't stand the mingling voices, the clink of the spoon on the punch bowl, the warmth of everyone together in a room.
Besides, it's a costume party, isn't it? He's not in costume. He doesn't fit in. Doesn't fit. Never did. Doesn't belong here. There. Anywhere.
He prowls the outskirts of the house instead. Here it's damp, dark, dusty, unfriendly. This is more like it. That's what he was looking for. What's that word again? Unheimlich.
Safest where it's unsafe. Where he blends into the background.
Nobody should be near him. No one should touch him. He's poison. Sickness. Razor's edge. He'll only hurt you.
He listens to the crisp creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, listens to the draft that has one of the doors rattling open and shut periodically. Makes him jump everytime. Good. Be afraid. He deserves to be afraid.
He's part of this place. Why didn't he see it before? The house - the house - every house. They're part of him, and he, them.
It makes so much sense.
He cuts little paths through inter-connected rooms, each darker and colder than the last. Rusted doorknobs, rotting wood, mirrors shattered and coated with black residue, so he can only see himself through the cracks and gaps. As it should be.
Johnny doesn't have a costume here.
Johnny is himself.