a house never complete. the one that lives in it, perennially at work—building it, decorating it, on occasion, destroying it. another house, on the same plot. a house that once was, or rather, the houses that once were. un-empty, or rather, as full as houses that once were can be. another house, on the same plot, a house the one dreams of. bursting with ambition, or despair, mutating with every passing second.
it is night time. on most days it is night time. the one understands this, holds on to the house, the real house. yet what is real, one wonders? walking into the kitchen, the one hears a soft melody. enticing. the one is carried, as the fragrance of a flower carries across a strong wind. too sweet, too strong, too much to be true. the one walks towards it. the song renders one vulnerable, naked. one weeps and feels desperate to find the source.
only too late does one realise when the siren’s tendrils are wrapped around one’s neck. the song—the spell of ruin—is broken. one runs towards the walls, any wall. touches chipped paint. this is real, one thinks, almost forgetting the walls were repainted only yesterday. there was no chipped paint. blood runs cold. recoiling, one stumbles on a ghastly, ghostly memory they were sure they had locked away in the attic. the one falls, hits their head.
blood.
when the one wakes up, power is out. a candle, somewhere, hopefully not thrown away in a brief stint of confidence and security. the one tries to get up, heavy, chest tight. being watched. it doesn’t do well to look at shadows, yet the one sneaks a glance. a blood-curdling scream.
the candle is in the garden.
memories discarded have found their way back inside. the one must make haste. except, the walls are closing in. breathing is difficult. the air thickens, cloying, lungs drowning. the one is pushing, against the air, against the walls of the houses that once were. a hand. no—many hands. grabbing, pulling. the one loses, falls flat. nose breaks, blood again. being dragged into the past, while the future crushes down. the houses let no sound pass. the one is fading.
no.
one lands a solid kick when the end is near. the one stumbles toward the kitchen. ghostly walls still closing in, but the one forces through. the kitchen door, the garden. jammed. one pushes, nothing. runs back, throws their weight into it. the door cracks, jagged wood slices through cloth, barely misses the abdomen. too much blood everywhere.
the trash can.
the candle, covered in grime. the one holds it close, limps back, barely standing, barely breathing. the kitchen is dangerous when the walls close in. drawers, shaking hands, the lighter. the one turns. surrounded.
click.
the lighter hesitant, flickers.
the siren song again, urging the one to drop it. it is too much. a part of the one wants to. the ghouls, spectres, ghosts, have started tearing the house down. perhaps it is already over, one thinks.
one decides it cannot be. the candle flickers to life. shadows recoil.
the one gently, weakly places it on the kitchen top, lets gravity take over. the one falls, body limp, exhausted.
shadows will be back. the one knows. for now, the candle glows. enough. one smiles, weakly.