There's an old house built in a graveyard in the middle of a swamp. And there's lots of mist too. But that's where she lives, my special friend: the nightmare witch.
Her home is empty now, but she'll show. Maybe she'll ooze up from the floor. Maybe all the knit knacks will float and grow sharp. She'll do something, you just have to give her time.
I'm usually never at her house. She usually visits me.
A man was selling me a pool once. When he looked at me, his face split and slid down. It was a sign... a warning. I awoke already in the witches belly, already digesting and lost. In my panic, I railed against the membranes. Broke free just to realize the belly was the world. That the blackness was true and vast. That I was no longer a dreamer in the night, but a damned soul back home.
So I screamed, long and loud, chiming with the my shattering life. My death cry.
I rang till the lights came on. With sullen surprise, I saw the belly was just a room, the blackness was still just night, and my reaction... It was just as real as the furniture fading into view.
Bitch did it to me again.
It's her trade: to bring you to the brink, let you teeter on the edge, only to let go just when night and day meet. She has practiced her sadism on me for many years now, and we are both seasoned players.
Yet, why am I at her home? I'm in the lawn, standing with grave stones and lawn gnomes... amidst a thick... really thick fog. A house in a graveyard, in a swamp with lawn gnomes. Oh and look yonder, there's an eerie swing set. This lady got a death cry from me and her home would make a Hammer movie blush.
The inside is just as bad. The wood that makes the furniture and rimmed corners is curved and doughy. The pottery is petit and sleek. Even the stone fireplace is adorably plump. My nightmare lives in the cartoon of a nightmare. I'm already lounging in evil's dumpy chair. God, it has a heart carved in it.
Where did she get her power over me? I'll admit it's faded, despite her vigorous tries.
Once, I awoke to a cat-size spider gnawing on my shoulder. When she saw me, she just barked and leapt upon a web that spanned the whole of my room. There were no cries, no fear. I just waited for her to fade with the day.
It's been that way for years. Occasionally, when I was vulnerable, she'd win a rise from me. But almost always, all she'd stir was my patience. Still she tries. And here I sit in her new game. Her home now its center piece. I didn't even know she had a home.
Why won't she talk to me? Why does she wait in the crack behind the stove?
Eaten, stabbed, slashed: I have fucked every one of her forms in the language of terror. "You only get to pop my innocence once. The next nightmares just make the heart more calloused." This is an old maid's home.
She was young once, like me. The first time, she was... an it... a soul eater. She was reality writhing in the shadows: death when the lights went out. So many times I ran, fought, killed, died cause of her. She fucked hard as twisted people, wiry quick insects, all consuming blackness itself. When we were young.
All that's left now hides behind the stove, too tired to even try. There is no game. It just wanted to see me.