Johnny is forced into a run by the contractions of the tunnel, stumbling and cursing and bracing himself against the rising tide of panic the entire way, as desperate to escape the undulating tunnel, so much like a throat (the house is alive and the house is hungry, it will devour me, is devouring me, no no no no no) as it is to be rid of him; until, finally, he is forced out, outside.
He stares around himself, barely having a moment to breathe for all the chaos of the world he's blundered into. Where is he?
He can't move without stepping on the desperately clinging fauna that surround him, so he doesn't move, just lowers himself delicately to the ground and holds out his hands for the little creatures to swarm onto. He can't keep them from being blown about, and for reasons difficult to pin down, seeing them like this tears at his heart.
What is this place? Where has he gone?
He glances over his shoulder, at the passage which is still shifting and squirming like a beast, trying to understand it locationally, architecturally, when he realizes all too slowly that this is not any place in New York, and he is not outside at all.
He's still in the house.
But this is not like any house he's ever encountered, not even Will Navidson said anything about this, and that still doesn't feel like the right answer.
The butterflies are crawling up his arms and legs and he resists the kneejerk urge to brush them off, wanting instead to give them a place to stay, nestled in the folds of his clothes. He stands up again and moves forward gingerly, trying to avoid crushing anything underfoot.
The storm that hovers electric in the air, suggesting without releasing, is familiar somehow. The pulse of it, the heat, the feeling in his head. There's a tension headache forming behind his eyes. He knows this pain, there's a distinct memory that it's tapping, something circling the edge of his certitude. Has he been here before? Has he?
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He stares around himself, barely having a moment to breathe for all the chaos of the world he's blundered into. Where is he?
He can't move without stepping on the desperately clinging fauna that surround him, so he doesn't move, just lowers himself delicately to the ground and holds out his hands for the little creatures to swarm onto. He can't keep them from being blown about, and for reasons difficult to pin down, seeing them like this tears at his heart.
What is this place? Where has he gone?
He glances over his shoulder, at the passage which is still shifting and squirming like a beast, trying to understand it locationally, architecturally, when he realizes all too slowly that this is not any place in New York, and he is not outside at all.
He's still in the house.
But this is not like any house he's ever encountered, not even Will Navidson said anything about this, and that still doesn't feel like the right answer.
The butterflies are crawling up his arms and legs and he resists the kneejerk urge to brush them off, wanting instead to give them a place to stay, nestled in the folds of his clothes. He stands up again and moves forward gingerly, trying to avoid crushing anything underfoot.
The storm that hovers electric in the air, suggesting without releasing, is familiar somehow. The pulse of it, the heat, the feeling in his head. There's a tension headache forming behind his eyes. He knows this pain, there's a distinct memory that it's tapping, something circling the edge of his certitude. Has he been here before? Has he?