The Heart as a Haunted House
Hidden behind deeply rooted trees, speedy red beasts, and tough strings threaded with slippery yellow grease...
.
.
.
.
.
is a haunted house.
From the outside, it's hard to even call it a house, as there are only two atriums, winding hallways leading to the unknown, and leaky valves opening and shutting on their own accord with hisses and sighs. And yet, it is very much a house, as there are tenants (odd but residents nonetheless) who enter with such bravado but never seem to leave, as they find a corner to call a home.
There are ghosts within the walls of this mansion. Or just one, depending on how you look at it. The same once-human in different stages of their life roam night and day without rest. Frightened by the sight, visitors try to run from the raging once-human, only to find the same once-human just around the corner, crying alone in the dark. They are all looking for something (perhaps an answer or a question?) with their lost faces and displays of various types of distress. Curiously, the once-human in its myriad forms is unable to see each other. Rather unfortunate if you ask me; how much easier would their quest be if they could work together? But I digress, as there are more than ghosts that give this house its cliché yet proper title.
Poltergeists are curious creatures. All smiles and grace and radiance while committing the most heinous of acts: smashing the mahogany stair rails, crashing the stained glass windows, and throwing pictures into the fireplace. This makes other occupants swear and shake in frustration for a second, only to laugh it off and continue the madness, repeating the cycle over and over again. How much quieter would this house be without these monsters? And yet, the house continues to house them despite its better judgment (or as much judgment as a structure could have), letting it wreak havoc.
There are also demons dwelling in the basement; their faces are rarely seen. Their presence, on the other hand, is an entirely different story. From the moment you enter the woods, there is a strange coldness that clings to the skin that only seems to freeze harder as you approach the house like a morbid compass guiding you home. When they do leave their dank dungeon, the air turns to lead, heavy and poisonous, and the little light in the house goes out, leaving only darkness that presses in, delivering the final blow, and leaving everyone frozen in its wake.