The Seams Have Splintered, Too.

Episode 9.

I knew that I was dreaming, but I kept driving.

The streets… I must have driven them before – I knew my way, though snow turned threateningly beneath my tires, forcing the wheel awry.

The plows had not come through yet – had I not planned for this? Perhaps I hadn’t. The car smelled unfamiliar. Falsified new. Wafts of some industrial carpet shampoo upturned my stomach.

I kept on driving.

I parked outside a looming sort of manor, emerged into a blinding gust of snow. I squeezed my eyes shut, nose buried below my sweater’s collar. Somehow my steps still found the porch and door.

I had a key, I noticed – its frozen grooves pressed marks into my palm.

I plunged it like a sword into the deadbolt. I turned. It clicked. I opened.

Was I surprised?

I stepped inside.

The house was wide, cavernous… cold. My squeaking footsteps echoed as I stumbled carefully through every chamber, whistling, searching… for what, I didn’t know, only I didn’t find it there on the first floor so I ascended to the second.

I didn’t meander here. An impulse urged me on to just one room – all thoughts consumed by a door on its left side.

It had a curtain covering glass panes. I tried to peer out through them, but the fabric was too solid – black opaque – its edges held in place with silver bolts delivered straight into the wood.

How strange, I mused.

I tried the doorknob. Locked, it seemed, but the bolt was on this side. I tried it next. Though jammed, at first, with ice, I forced it open, turned the knob, and shoved.

There was a balcony… so piled with mounds of snow the door was blocked from swinging outward fully.

I climbed around it, shut it closed again, and stood in silence.

There wasn’t much out here. A shovel lay unused against a corner, all but its handle buried by the snow. Some outdoor chairs, I presumed, were wearing snowy cushions raised in curves above them. I ventured over, took a pink and ungloved hand to clear a throne I could sit down on.

And so I sat. With nothing to pass the time except my breath in hot, thick puffs against gray skies.

The wind came and a flutter sounded near, as if a bird had landed right beside me.

I looked to my right, saw nothingness so clear I thought I’d dreamt some meaningless thing until the wind sprung up again and now I saw it: a letter, there… its sole unburied corner blending white into the snow heaped all around it.

I knelt beside it, pinched the corner tight, and pulled. It didn’t come easy. Breathing a quick, hot breath upon raw hands, I cleared the snow. A creature lay beneath it. The letter, taped steadfastly to its fur, was scrawled in marker.

Forget something?

A click came from behind. My ears plugged up, and all I heard was ringing… ringing… ringing…

The wind gusted the snow into my eyes. I closed them, blind.

I felt something too warm and far too wet seep down my throat, clinging like boiling glue against my throat… My hands, perhaps from cold, had fallen numb…

I couldn’t use them, but…

At once, I knew…

I knew…

I knew…

…that I was dreaming. Yes, a dream.

I knew that I was dreaming…

So I drove.

***

The phone was ringing long before I woke. I answered, bleary.

The woman didn’t waste an introduction, her voice like records crackling against my ear.

“I’d not move in to that house, dear, unless you’re absolutely desperate.”

I steeled myself, dug long for draughts of courage.

“I’ll take it,” I responded.

“Oh… my dear.”

“I’ll take it.”

I tugged Kombucha’s body tight against mine, summoned a stiff conviction to my tone. “Yes, I am certain.”

She only sighed.

“Don’t rip the seams on the curtain…”

“What?”

“And don’t rip the seams on the mirror…”