Marcus Kliewer

She stared into the fire, as if the solution might be hidden in the embers, conjured up in red, flickering letters. But of course, there was only fire, smoke, and ash. “I just, I never should have invited them in,” she thought aloud.

Charlie scoffed. “You think they’re vampires?”

“No.” Eve paused, tilting her head. “Maybe…?”

Charlie smirked and took a swig of beer.

“Would’ve been a quick night if I answered the door…”

“Hello miss.” Eve pretended to be Thomas. “Can we come in?”

“Nope.”

“Roll credits.” Eve snorted.

Some say it’s a sanctuary for some kind of ancient entity. Some say it is a sprawling labyrinth that spreads across space and time and traps unsuspecting civilians in a maze of never-ending terror. Some say it’s simply a metaphor——a mirror into humanity’s fascination with long-abandoned structures. There are hundreds of theories. Long story short, when it comes to Old House and the surrounding lore, you’ll get a different story depending on who you ask and how many bong hits deep they happen to be.)

I pretended I was getting better, bit by bit. Saying anything I could to shorten my time locked up here. To avoid those secure-cell wings.

But all the while, I knew what the truth was. You don’t need a PhD to know that actual psychotic delusions and hallucinations don’t resemble what I experienced—so sudden and impossibly intricate. These weren’t hallucinations. These weren’t delusions.