The hammer is in your hand. It is heavy. It is real. You are eight years old and the air is thick with the smell of wet plaster and old blood. You are striking the wall. You are striking it again. The plaster crumbles. You are not playing. You are working.

Who told you to do this?

"Quiet, Thomas," says the woman in the doorway. She is tall. She is pale. She holds a book to her chest. "It is not a game. It is a correction."

Your name is Thomas. You are in the house. The house is yours. Or the house is the thing that owns you. It is hard to tell. The walls are white. They are sweating. You strike the wall. A chunk of lime falls. It is white. It is soft. It looks like bone.

"Why?" you ask. Your voice is small. It is a thread.

"Because it knows," she says. She does not step inside. She stays on the threshold. The light from the hall catches her eyes. They are black. They are deep. "It knows what you are. It knows what you will be. The walls remember. The floorboards remember. If you do not break them, they will break you."

You stop. You look at the hammer. You look at the hole in the wall. Behind the plaster, there is a dark space. It is a mouth. It is waiting.

"I am not a monster," you say.

"Are you not?" she asks. "Look at your hands, Thomas. Look at what they have done."

You look at your hands. They are red. They are shaking. You are not sure whose blood is on them. It is your blood. It is the house's blood. It is the same thing.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the witness," she says. "I am here to see if you can let it go. I am here to see if you can put down the hammer."

You look at the hammer. You look at the wall. You feel a pull. It is in your teeth. It is in your spine. The house is pulling at you. It wants to be whole. It wants to be closed. You are the flaw. You are the crack.

"I will fix it," you say.

"You cannot fix it," she says. "You can only break it. Or you can let it break you."

You strike the wall again. A larger piece falls. The hole is wider. The darkness inside is deeper. You hear a sound. It is a hum. It is low. It is coming from the floor. It is coming from the ceiling. It is coming from the walls.

"It is waking up," you whisper.

"Yes," she says. "It has been waiting for you to notice."

You drop the hammer. It clatters on the floor. The sound is loud. It is sharp. It cuts the air. You back away. You bump into the chair. The chair scrapes against the wood. The sound is terrible. It is a scream.

The humming stops.

The house is silent.

You are breathing. Your lungs are full. Your chest is tight. You look at the hole. The darkness is still there. It is watching you. It is not angry. It is patient. It has time. It has always had time.

"Go away," you say.

"I cannot," she says. "I am part of the house. I am part of the memory. If you leave, I leave. If you stay, I stay. But you are not leaving. You are the root. You are the thing that holds the house together. And you are rotting."

You feel the truth of it. It is cold. It is wet. It spreads from your feet to your head. You are rotting. You have been rotting for years. You do not remember when it started. You only know that you are weak. You are soft. You are breaking.

"I want to be strong," you say.

"Strength is a lie," she says. "It is a mask. The house does not want strength. The house wants truth. The house wants you to be what you are. A child. A boy. A thing that is afraid."

You are afraid. You are so afraid. You are afraid of the dark. You are afraid of the silence. You are afraid of yourself. You look at the hole. You want to fill it. You want to make it whole. You pick up a piece of the plaster. It is small. It is white. You hold it in your hand. You press it against the hole. It does not stick. It falls.

You pick up another piece. You press it against the hole. It falls.

"Stop," she says.

"I have to fix it," you say.

"You are not fixing it," she says. "You are feeding it. Every time you strike, you give it more. Every time you try to hide, you give it more. It is a hunger, Thomas. It is an old hunger. And you are the meal."

You drop the plaster. You step back. You feel the floor shift. It is subtle. It is a tilt. The room is leaning. The walls are bending. They are curving inwards. They are closing.

"I will not let you in," you say.

"You are already in," she says. "You have always been in. You are the secret. You are the shame. You are the thing the house cannot digest. And now you are the thing that is digesting the house."

The walls are closer. You can see the texture. It is rough. It is gray. It looks like skin. It looks like meat.

"I am not ashamed," you say. Your voice is loud. It is a shout. "I am not ashamed. I am Thomas. I am here. I am real."

The walls stop.

The tilt stops.

The room is still.

You are breathing. You are alive.

She is smiling. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile.

"You are right," she says. "You are real. And that is why it hurts. That is why it must end."

"End?" you ask.

"Everything ends," she says. "The house ends. The game ends. The fear ends. But first, you must choose. You must choose to break, or you must choose to be broken."

You look at the hammer. It is lying on the floor. It is still. It is waiting.

You look at the hole. It is dark. It is deep.

You pick up the hammer.

You do not strike the wall.

You strike the floor.

You strike the floor again.

The wood splinters. The boards crack. The sound is dry. It is sharp. It is like a bone breaking.

The house groans. It is a deep sound. It is a low sound. It is a sound of pain.

You keep striking. You strike until your arm is numb. You strike until the hammer is slippery with sweat. You strike until the floor is a mess of splinters and dust.

The walls are shaking. The ceiling is cracking. The light is flickering.

"Enough," she says.

"No," you say.

"Thomas."

"No!"

You strike again. A piece of the ceiling falls. It hits the floor. It is white. It is heavy.

The house is falling apart.

You are laughing. You are crying. You are screaming. You are alive. You are so alive.

The room is collapsing. The walls are falling. The floor is giving way.

You are in the dark.

You are in the silence.

You are in the stillness.

You are Thomas.

You are the root.

You are the end.

The hammer is in your hand. It is heavy. It is real.

You drop it.

The sound is the last thing you hear.

It is a clatter.

It is a silence.

It is a peace.

You are gone.

The house is gone.

The walls are gone.

The hole is gone.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are the space between the bricks.

You are the air in the room.

You are the memory of a boy who broke the world.

And the world did not break back.

It let you go.

It let you rest.

It let you be.

The dust settles.

The light fades.

The silence stays.

You are here.

You are nowhere.

You are the end of the story.

And the story is true.

It is always true.

It is always wrong.

It is always you.

Look at your hands.

They are clean.

They are still.

They are empty.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.

The hammer is on the floor.

It is still.

It is waiting.

But you do not pick it up.

You do not pick it up.

You do not pick it up.

You walk away.

You walk out of the room.

You walk out of the house.

You walk into the light.

The light is warm.

The light is soft.

The light is yours.

You do not look back.

You do not look back.

You do not look back.

The house is behind you.

It is small.

It is quiet.

It is gone.

You are here.

You are now.

You are Thomas.

You are free.

The end.

The end.

The end.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.