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From Kitty Horrorshow's Anatomy
Jan. 13th, 2024 09:31 pmWhat happens to a house when it is left alone?
When it becomes worn and aged, and its paint peels, and its foundations begin to sink. It goes for too long unlived in. What does it think of? What does it dream?
How does it regard those creatures who built it? Who brought it into existence only to abandon it when its usefulness no longer satisfies them.
It may grow lonesome. It may stare for long hours into the darkness of its own empty halls and see shadows. And its heart may jump as it thinks "here, here is someone again, I am not alone."
Each time it is wrong. And the hurt starts over.
It may haunt itself, inventing ghosts to walk its floors, making friends with its shadow puppets, laughing and whispering to itself at the end of some quiet cul-de-sac.
It may grow angry. Its basement may fill with churning acid like an empty stomach. And its gorge may rise as it asks itself, through clenched teeth, "what did I do wrong?"
It may grow bitter. It may grow hungry. So hungry and so bitter that its scruples dissolve and its doors unlock themselves.
While a house may hunger, it cannot starve. And so in fever and anger and loneliness, it may simply lie in wait. Doors open. Shades drawn. Hallways empty. Hungry.
When it becomes worn and aged, and its paint peels, and its foundations begin to sink. It goes for too long unlived in. What does it think of? What does it dream?
How does it regard those creatures who built it? Who brought it into existence only to abandon it when its usefulness no longer satisfies them.
It may grow lonesome. It may stare for long hours into the darkness of its own empty halls and see shadows. And its heart may jump as it thinks "here, here is someone again, I am not alone."
Each time it is wrong. And the hurt starts over.
It may haunt itself, inventing ghosts to walk its floors, making friends with its shadow puppets, laughing and whispering to itself at the end of some quiet cul-de-sac.
It may grow angry. Its basement may fill with churning acid like an empty stomach. And its gorge may rise as it asks itself, through clenched teeth, "what did I do wrong?"
It may grow bitter. It may grow hungry. So hungry and so bitter that its scruples dissolve and its doors unlock themselves.
While a house may hunger, it cannot starve. And so in fever and anger and loneliness, it may simply lie in wait. Doors open. Shades drawn. Hallways empty. Hungry.
