You dream of the house.

It is always winter.

The snow lies thick on the roof of the manor, white and silent.

You are the scholar.

You know this because you hold the book.

The binding is cracked.

The pages are dry.

You stand in the library.

The room is vast.

Shelves line the walls.

They hold the history of the family.

They hold the truth.

You are not afraid.

You are certain.

You have read the text.

The text is clear.

The text says the house is a body.

The house breathes.

The house remembers.

You feel the vibration.

It hums in the floorboards.

It hums in the air.

It is the voice of the dead.

It is the voice of the ancestors.

You listen.

You understand.

The house is alive.

It has been waiting.

It has been waiting for you.

You are the key.

You are the lock.

You are the door.

You open the book.

You read the words.

The words are old.

The words are heavy.

They speak of a pact.

They speak of a sacrifice.

They speak of a soul.

The soul is yours.

You accept this.

You have always accepted this.

It is your duty.

It is your birthright.

You turn the page.

The next page is blank.

You frown.

You look up.

The room has changed.

The shelves are gone.

The walls are dark.

The air is cold.

You are not alone.

There is a figure.

It stands by the window.

It is tall.

It is thin.

It wears a dress.

The dress is white.

The dress is torn.

You know the figure.

You have seen her in the mirrors.

You have seen her in the shadows.

She is Margaret.

She is your mother.

She is the house.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are empty.

Her mouth is open.

She does not speak.

She does not need to.

You feel the pull.

It is strong.

It is sweet.

It is final.

You step forward.

You step into the dark.

You step into the silence.

You step into the end.

You wake up.

The sun is high.

The room is bright.

You are in your study.

The air is warm.

The smell of coffee lingers.

You sit at the desk.

The book is in front of you.

It is closed.

You open it.

The pages are dry.

The binding is cracked.

You look at the last page.

It is blank.

You close the book.

You stand up.

You walk to the window.

You look out.

The garden is green.

The birds are singing.

The world is ordinary.

You are ordinary.

You are safe.

You are wrong.

You know you are wrong.

The feeling remains.

The hum is still there.

It is faint.

It is in your bones.

It is in your blood.

It is in your soul.

You pick up the phone.

You dial the number.

It rings.

It rings.

It rings.

It stops.

The line is dead.

You try again.

It rings.

It stops.

You try again.

It rings.

It stops.

You put the phone down.

You sit back.

You look at the book.

The book looks at you.

You feel the fear.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It is real.

You open the book.

You read the first page.

The words are different.

They are not old.

They are new.

They are yours.

You wrote them.

You do not remember writing them.

The words say:

The house is not a body.

The house is a lie.

The house is a trap.

You are not the key.

You are the bait.

You are the food.

You close the book.

You shake your head.

You laugh.

It is a dry laugh.

It is a bitter laugh.

You are a scholar.

You do not believe in ghosts.

You do not believe in magic.

You believe in evidence.

You believe in logic.

You believe in truth.

You open the book.

You read again.

The words change.

They say:

There is no escape.

There is no time.

There is no choice.

There is only the end.

You close the book.

You stand up.

You walk to the door.

You open the door.

You step into the hallway.

The hallway is long.

The hallway is dark.

The floor is cold.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

You reach the stairs.

You go down.

You reach the kitchen.

The kitchen is empty.

The table is set.

There are two places.

One is yours.

One is hers.

You sit.

You wait.

The door opens.

She enters.

She is not Margaret.

She is not a ghost.

She is a woman.

She is young.

She is beautiful.

She is you.

You are not alone.

You have never been alone.

The house is a mirror.

The house is a mind.

The house is a dream.

You are the dream.

She sits across from you.

She smiles.

Her smile is sad.

Her smile is kind.

She speaks.

Her voice is soft.

Her voice is clear.

Her voice is yours.

She says:

You are tired.

You are broken.

You are lost.

You are done.

You look at her.

You see your own eyes.

You see your own pain.

You see your own fear.

You see your own hope.

You see your own love.

You see your own life.

You are not a scholar.

You are not a man.

You are a memory.

You are a thought.

You are a feeling.

You are a story.

The story is over.

The book closes.

The light fades.

The silence returns.

You are gone.

The house stands.

The snow falls.

The wind blows.

The world continues.

The world does not know.

The world does not care.

The world is indifferent.

The world is cruel.

The world is beautiful.

The world is real.

You are not real.

You are a dream.

You are a lie.

You are a truth.

You are a ghost.

You are a memory.

You are a name.

You are a word.

You are a sound.

You are a silence.

You are a breath.

You are a heartbeat.

You are a soul.

You are a spirit.

You are a shadow.

You are a light.

You are a dark.

You are a life.

You are a death.

You are a beginning.

You are an end.

You are a cycle.

You are a wheel.

You are a circle.

You are a line.

You are a point.

You are a void.

You are a nothing.

You are a something.

You are a everything.

You are a nothing.

The book is closed.

The page is blank.

The ink is dry.

The dust is still.

The air is still.

The time is still.

The space is still.

The soul is still.

The mind is still.

The heart is still.

The body is still.

The house is still.

The world is still.

The dream is still.

The truth is still.

The lie is still.

The fear is still.

The hope is still.

The love is still.

The pain is still.

The joy is still.

The sadness is still.

The happiness is still.

The life is still.

The death is still.

The beginning is still.

The end is still.

The cycle is still.

The wheel is still.

The circle is still.

The line is still.

The point is still.

The void is still.

The nothing is still.

The something is still.

The everything is still.

The nothing is still.