This house feels like a horror story waiting to happen. While being a very modern home-- abiding by all the rules and building codes-- the too-high ceilings make me feel uncomfortably small. The too-long hallways stretch narrowly past the sixteen doors, a space for walking past but no place to be, no place to stay, no place to live. The too-big closets feel empty, and whenever I step inside one, I lose all sense of direction, my grasp of spacial awareness slips-- it's fine if I don't think too hard, but when I do, the closets don't seem to fit with the rest of the house, they seem too big, stretching backwards, dusty white shelves full of everyone's decade-old garbage. The too-familiar feel of its pieced together home-ness gets to me.
During the day, it mostly fills me with memories from back when my cousins lived here. Those were happy days, carefree. It's no surprise I know the house well; I came here nearly once a week-- it already felt like a second home, years before that became reality.
But I never slept here, all these years. And somehow, there were rooms never saw. Places I didn't...
In the night, when the dark fills every faraway corner of each spacious room, pools like tar in the cramped crawlspace, growls from behind the ever-locked door, seeps through the walls like growing mold... The house feels otherworldly. Liminal.
I know it's all in my head. The house feels off because it was originally built to be a bed and breakfast. At least, that's what I heard. I know logically that houses aren't hungry. Monsters aren't real. Ghosts don't haunt.
But the feelings this house give me twist my mind, bend my convictions like a stubborn metal bar, sturdy at first but bound to bend. And once my convictions start to bend, they'll bend all at once, then snap!--
I'll be a different person.
I don't want to be food for this house. But if I am, what can I really do about it? I feel like no matter what happens, I'll never truly believe either way...
Whatever the case, this is home. I might as well get used to it.