Early summer afternoon. Overcast skies.
Waiting for storms.
The house is gray. Quiet.
Pale light from outside, dim within. The air still, dead.
Every room feels empty and full at the same time. An unseen crowd gathers.
Something around every corner.
Watchful. Waiting.
Patient.
A strange atmosphere hanging over The Last House tonight.
The sky outside is heavy with rain, but it doesn’t look like any will fall. The heat is heavy, like a hand on your chest.
Inside . . . everything feels pressurized, oppressive.
There are shadows moving through the rooms, vague shapes darting here and there in the periphery of my vision . . . some pop out into my line of sight, trying to startle me.
Almost clown like, playful. But they want me to be scared.
I feel twitchy, paranoid . . . glancing, looking back over my shoulder as things pass.
It hasn’t been this bad in a long time.
It’s been getting worse by the minute.
It’s going to be a long night.