You wake up in the hallway. The floor is cold. Your feet are bare. The wood has worn smooth under generations of shuffling. You know this house. It is your body. It is the only thing you have left. The walls are peeling. Yellow paint curls like dead skin. You touch the plaster. It crumbles. You are here. You are always here.

The door at the end of the hall is closed. It was closed when you woke. It is closed now. You walk toward it. Your legs are stiff. They do not want to move. But you move. You must move. There is no one else. There is only the house and the silence. The silence is heavy. It presses against your ears. It tastes like dust.

You reach the door. You do not knock. You push. It sticks. You push harder. Your shoulder aches. The wood groans. It gives way. The room is dark. A single window lets in a gray light. The light is thin. It cuts through the dust. You stand in the doorway. You breathe. The air is stale. It smells of old paper and wet earth.

There is a table. A single chair. A mirror. The glass is cloudy. You look into it. Your face is pale. Your eyes are deep. They are too dark. You do not recognize them. They are not yours. They belong to the stranger who lives in the walls. You turn away. You do not want to see. You go to the window. You open it. The air rushes in. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your lungs. You gasp. You laugh. The sound is dry. It is a crack in the dry earth.

You sit in the chair. The wood is hard. It bites into your bones. You look at the floor. There is a stain. It is brown. It is old. It looks like blood. It looks like rust. You touch it. It is dry. You wipe your hand on your pant leg. The stain does not come off. It is part of you. It has always been there.

The phone rings. It is a black box on the table. It looks like a tombstone. You stare at it. It shakes. The sound is loud. It is violent. You do not pick up. You wait. It stops. You wait more. It rings again. You pick it up. The receiver is heavy. It is cold. You hold it to your ear.

It is silent.

"Hello?" you say. Your voice is a whisper. It is small. It breaks.

Nothing.

"Who is this?" you ask.

A breath. It is long. It is slow. It sounds like wind through dead leaves.

"I know you," the voice says. It is low. It is rough. It is familiar. You know this voice. It is your father’s voice. But your father is dead. He died in the field. He died in the rain. He did not speak like this. This voice is wrong. This voice is a lie.

"Who are you?" you ask again.

"I am the one who built the walls," the voice says. "I am the one who kept you safe."

You feel a chill. It runs down your spine. It is ice. It is fear. You do not trust it. You do not trust the voice. You do not trust the house. You close your eyes. You breathe. You count to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

"I don't know you," you say. "You are a ghost. You are a trick. Go away."

The line goes dead. The silence returns. It is thicker now. It is heavier. It presses on your chest. It makes it hard to breathe. You stand up. Your knees shake. You walk to the door. You open it. The hallway is empty. The light is fading. The gray is turning black.

You walk to the next room. The door is open. The room is empty. There is a bed. The sheets are white. They are dirty. They are gray. You lie down. You pull the covers up. They are cold. They are damp. You close your eyes. You try to sleep. But you cannot. The voice is in your head. It is humming. It is low. It is sad. It sings a song you know. It is a lullaby. It is the song your mother sang. But she is gone. She is dust. She is ash.

You sit up. You look at the wall. There is a crack. It is thin. It is like a vein. It runs from the floor to the ceiling. You touch it. It is rough. It is warm. It pulses. It beats. It is alive. The house is alive. It is breathing. You are inside it. You are part of it.

You feel sick. You vomit. It is black. It is thick. It smells of iron. You wipe your mouth. You look at the floor. The stain is bigger now. It is spreading. It is moving. It crawls toward you. You back away. You hit the wall. It is cold. It is hard. You slide down. You sit on the floor. You hug your knees. You shake. You cannot stop shaking.

The phone rings.

You do not move. You do not breathe. You wait. It rings. It rings. It rings. You pick it up. You do not speak. You listen.

"Open the door," the voice says.

"I am in the house," you say. "I am already here."

"Open the door," the voice says. "You are not here. You are outside. You are cold. You are hungry. You are alone."

"No," you say. "I am safe. I am home."

"Home is a lie," the voice says. "Home is a cage. You are trapped. You are worn out. You are breaking."

"I am strong," you say. "I am the house. I am the walls."

"You are the dust," the voice says. "You are the rot. You are the end."

You hang up. You throw the phone. It hits the wall. It shatters. The pieces scatter. The glass glints in the dark. You stare at the pieces. They look like teeth. They look like shards. They look like your own bones.

You stand up. You walk to the door. You open it. The hallway is dark. The light is gone. The black is total. You walk. Your feet are bare. The wood is cold. You walk to the front door. It is massive. It is oak. It is locked. You try the handle. It does not turn. You push. It does not move. You kick it. It does not break. It is too strong. It is too hard. It is eternal.

You lean against it. You slide down. You sit on the steps. The stone is cold. It soaks into your clothes. You look up. The sky is black. There are no stars. There is no moon. There is only the dark. It is infinite. It is endless. It swallows you.

You close your eyes. You remember. You remember the field. You remember the rain. You remember your father’s face. He was smiling. He was happy. He said, "We are home." He lied. He was wrong. There is no home. There is only the maze. There is only the wear. There is only the end.

You open your eyes. The door is open. It is swinging. The wind is blowing. It is loud. It is howling. It sounds like screaming. You stand up. You walk through the door. You step out. The air is cold. It is sharp. It cuts you. You walk forward. You do not look back. You do not stop. You walk. You walk until your feet bleed. You walk until your legs give out. You fall. You lie in the dirt. The dirt is cold. It is wet. It is dead.

You look at the house. It is small. It is far away. It is a speck. It is a dot. It is nothing. It is gone. You are here. You are in the field. You are in the world. You are alone.

You stand up. You keep walking. The sun rises. It is pale. It is weak. It does not warm you. It does not save you. You walk toward the light. You walk into the light. You walk until you cannot walk anymore. You stop. You stand. You breathe. You live.

You are not the house. You are not the walls. You are not the dust. You are you. You are free. You are broken. You are whole. You are gone.